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I was just tripping out on information technology and the ‘storage’ aspect. I mean the storage of information – all of that stuff that is accessible on various levels – ad infinitum. Not being even a tad ‘into’ IT, I have no idea how, where and for how long ‘stuff’ is stored. Isn’t there a limit to what could be stored out there in cyberspace? Or could this go on for eternity – or for at least a few million years? Hypothetically speaking, of course!
It would seem pointless, for instance, to store useless or redundant information – stuff that could mislead and stuff that is plain inaccurate. If this is the case, who, or what would be the authority in charge of flushing it down the cyber-tube? Or would this be automated the moment some new information that contradicts and disproves the old is found?
No doubt that as this whole business develops at the almost exponential rate it is developing at, there will probably be different ways of ‘packaging’ information and different ‘storage’ devices, but the question remains: Will ALL the information from whenever the system began be ALWAYS available?
Or is there a limit to it?
The other interesting question would be, I guess, is where does the stuff that is ‘deleted’ go?
Emily Brontesaurus stayed indoors – her hand firmly on the controls
She surfed the channels hoping for delights that would titillate her desire
But no dice – no sights to prey on – no hint of anything that might have been suggestive
She probed her way through the remote into the network of signs and symbols
And through to her favourite soap opera where she merged with the players
To be at last a part of their world of intrigue and deception and what they called love
So much so
That the satisfaction she sought that came at the price she hadn’t the means of paying
Lingered momentarily in her cloudy consciousness until it disintegrated slowly
Along with her dreams and other memories of unfulfilled fantasies that never ended
Yes the coven is now inoperative – with the crones an extinguished species
And Emily the sole survivor is left to somehow regenerate the mystic insanity
That spread like the wispy myst curling like smoke in and around the petrified forest
Another global warming indicator that could never melt that cold and lonely heart
The country music freaks went on and on about in their brokeback mountain eulogies
Drowning their innermost urges in the stale and salty sweat that dripped off their saddles
By secretive supplicants with no means of getting their rocks off on the ranch
Or on the range under starlit skies or in their frozen early morning sleeping bags
For fear of reprisals and reprobation both from the commonplace and the divine
Poised once more at the brink but this was a different edge a strange and desolate lip
Thrust out into infinite space from where she could see the swirls of nebulae and clusters
Of stars in unchartered galaxies too numerous to fit into the black hole where her mind
Once long ago when Pink Floyd set the controls for the heart of the sun and Syd Barrett
Went into interstellar overdrive with Julia dreaming of Cirrus Minor to music
By Arnold Layne and none of it was suggestive or even faintly pornographic
I always thought that Java was tripping out, but it looks like this is a recurring dream. What can I say?
It was one of those days – you know, where everything goes just right. The morning started off being pristine, with the slightest of overnight showers making everything sparkle in the early morning light. Of course being up here in the hills is a definite plus, as everything is as it should be – determined by nature, for the most part – unlike in the city, where the early morning rush to work and schools gradually increases, along with the heat, dust and stress levels. WorldSpace’s classical music station Maestro had some brilliant Baroque selections on, that included Bach, Handel, Telemann and some of my other favourite composers, which added to the ambiance. The Mulberry tree just outside the study and opposite my desk (where I’m turning this out) was crowded with birds competing for the luscious berries – the Brown Headed Barbet, Red Vented Bulbul, Koel, White Browed Bulbul and a few other species among them. I’ve been trying to save the berries to make some of that delicious jam that was turned out last week, but I guess the birds need them too – and just watching them is a meditation worth its weight in whatever hits the spot.
After the usual ‘walking the dogs’ routine, a short workout and brekkers, I sit to answer mail and attend to some of the more mundane stuff I do whilst I’m here. WorldSpace is now tuned to the jazz station RIFF, and Miles is on, doing I loves you Porgy. The first thing I find in my ‘in-box’ is acceptance of a proposal I made with regard to helping old folk with disabilities and trying to help them gain more acceptance within their families – aimed mostly at the lower-income groups around the country. That was cool, so now I can assign the nitty-gritty to some capable individual in the organization and monitor how it goes as it progresses. Another mail had to do with some other stuff that was also great news, and there were no bummers to regret having received – for whatever reason.
Latish morning – and the sun is sweltering if you want to stand under it, but in the shade the temperature is 24C (I checked!). I had turned WorldSpace to The Hop, the ‘50s, ‘60s and ‘70s rock station to find Blind Faith doing Can’t find my way back home – it was time for a cool brew and Java was already busy rolling some really high quality sinsemilla, so the pre-lunch scenario looked just fine. And it was!
And so it went – all so smoothly and just about perfect – a satisfying lunch, a short read in bed, dozing off for a bit and then back to the laptop for more of the mundane, work-related stuff. Some light sandwiches and a cuppa for tiffin, more time at the laptop and now the dogs are hassling me to take them out for their regular evening routine. They come up to my desk and bump my chair – everyday like clockwork – sharp at 5 pm, the time I play some cricket or badminton with the kids next door, and then walk them before coming in for the usual shower and evening stuff – among which is to watch No Country for Old Men. I think Javier Bardem is outstanding, having seen him earlier in Before Night Falls, Second Skin and Jamon Jamon.
Just a great day up here in the hills.
Serendipity had gotten used to Timmy, her cat from the ’Phone for a Clone’ pet store, calling her ‘Mommy’. She thought it was cute, and now that his vocabulary had increased tremendously, he was able to string all sorts of little words and phrases together – particularly since he had checked out that ‘I can has cheezeburger’ lol cats site, so now he and his little friends, all of who originated from the ‘Phone for a Clone’ pet store, had a regular little gang – all speaking like them lol cats and doing them lol cats kinda fun stuff.
Timmy had just come back from a session with his friends – Rusty – a short, fat, racoonish type given to sticking her nose in pretty much anything she could get vicariously off on, PsycoCat – a quieter creature with a distinctly exotic appearance but with crossed eyes, Shrapnel – another cloned cat, and some of the others he had befriended. Serendipity had told him time and again not to keep Rusty’s company, knowing of course that their minds were like peas in a pod, and there was little chance that he would heed her words. And there he sat, looking ever so slightly perturbed – in his myopic, cloned-cat sorta way. The only thing with these ‘Phone for a Clone’ beasties was that although they were, for the most part, highly predictable, one never knew when their mental makeup would get short-circuited, causing them to freak out and express themselves in the most outlandish ways. Of course it seemed perfectly ‘normal’ to them – following from the mental makeup that had been programmed in the cloning process – but to Serendipity, it had got to be embarrassing on a few occasions.
For instance, that time when the Troubadour was in town and Serendipity took Timmy to the concert – she’d rather forget about that one! Her friends wondered what made ol Timmy react in the way he did – all offensive and slighting to the Troubadour at the reception after, and then when confronted, taking the ‘hooze me? or, ‘I wuz juz bein funny’ route. Serendipity rationalized it as best she could, even making up bits to protect Timmy. You see, her friends didn’t know he was from the ‘Phone for a Clone’ store and thought Timmy was ‘the real thing’.
Then there was the percussionist with the documentary fetish – Timmy went for him too – and the others noticed immediately. Serendipity was distraught. No amount of trying to reason with Timmy made any difference at all, it looked like he was oblivious to reason – ‘the cloning process’, was all she could think. And how, she wondered, could she re-programme her pet?
Anyway, there he was, looking ever so slightly perturbed – in his myopic cloned cat sorta way – staring at the wall and mumbling. His bandicoot-type tail was tucked firmly between his pants’ rear-end and he seemed to be deep in thought. Serendipity set about getting dinner together, humming to Billy Holiday doing Body and Soul and thinking of bed – it had been a long day. Table set, she got Timmy to help with getting the food to it. His skills had improved considerably, and his ‘fingers’, with the claws attached (one of those mishaps in the cloning procedure), had adapted well enough to get most things done.
The roast with assorted vegetables and baked potatoes looked good and smelled delicious and Timmy purrrred in anticipation. He still had a hard time with the soup – the slurrping sound had reduced, but Serendipity wasn’t about to give up trying to make him improve. He didn’t care for salads at all, but she didn’t make a big deal out of that – knowing how it was with cats – even these kinds. He did, however, have a craving for pickles and scoffed so much, she had to ration them.
And this is what did it for him that night – he picked up the jar, his claws striving for purchase, and took a whiff of his favourite food. He wrinkled his nose and sneezed so hard, his contact lenses nearly popped out.
‘Hey Mom, I can haz smell like rottin pickelz’, he said.
And he was so mad he went to bed without dinner.
Looks like yesterday’s post got the vermin crawling out of their holes – and it wasn’t so much to do with a reaction from the comments on kottu. Someone who frequents achcharu sent me a copy and paste job on the tags that the post generated on that site, and sure enough, it seemed like the coterie of snarkretins had emerged to indulge in their favourite pastime of posting cliché-ridden, banal, platitudinal tags with intent to do just what I was describing in the post before this. Like fish rising to the bait.
Oh well, I guess little things please little folk with littler minds!
And it may be interesting to watch for more reactions – that is if you want to waste the time.
Rapping with a fellow kottu-blogger last week, the subject got to responses in the form of comments and tags – and this guy gets a whole lot of them due to the popularity of his blog. The comments, for the most part, he said are engaging, interesting and complimentary, with few, if any, ’negative’ stuff that is usually done more with the intention to provoke than to inject an interesting observation or start any meaningful discussion stemming from the post in question.
The discussion went on to the kind of mentality it takes to be intentionally insulting or to spew meaningless profanity at some bloggers by folk that obviously dislike them, either for their respective views or on a more personal level. I’m sure most of us have read some of the unbelievable crap that is put out there in the form of comments and tags with the intention to hurt or anger the recipient, with what appears to be innuendo, false presumptions, taking parts of the post out of context, or just plain viciousness. Humour (albeit, as twisted as the author) is also sometimes employed to get the insults across.
I guess it takes a special type of person to hide behind the cover of a pseudonym or other virtual barricade and hurl shit around at whoever takes his or her fancy – for whatever reason. As is usual in most matters, the original cause for any action – in this case, abuse or insults – must have something to do with the ego, as it is unlikely that viciousness is aimed at random. I discussed some aspects of this phenomenon earlier, but that had more to do with ego and the part it plays in bloggers expressing themselves, sometimes their most personal affairs, for all to see, rather than the part it plays in abuse.
The way I see it is that the compulsive urge to abuse, insult, or attempt to demean, is a form of psychological distress manifesting itself in the convoluted logic that allows itself to do so. And, in all probability, a response is what is sought – in order to feed the perverse urge and sustain it. So, like some of the smarter bloggers who refrain from responding to the crap, the best reaction would be to non-react.
In the end, however, I guess we should feel sorry for these folks, as the dirt they dish out must fill their heads a whole lot – and that can’t be very pleasant for them.
The Dancer feels like having Japanese food tonight and I’m like, yeah okay – want to invite little Esh , who’s a Jap-food-freak? Two minutes later I’m told that Esh’s mum is very keen too – which means that Mr. Z will, in all probability, also join. Cool! So let’s see how it goes.
In the meantime there was this cryptic message from RD to say he is around, but try as I might have, there was no answer to my calls to his phone. Too bad, in case he may have liked the evening.
And it went well. We got to the Z’s house for a couple of drinks before setting off for this rather traditional Japanese restaurant run by one of the spiffier hotels. It was a good thing we had made reservations, as the place was buzzing. The menu was pretty extensive, so having a little bit of knowledge of some of the dishes, we settled for some of the known and tried some of the hitherto unsavoured fare as well. A variety of starters for all, combined with a selection of the main dishes, with garlic rice (perfectly done, though I never knew the Japs were keen on Garlic Rice!) made for an impressive selection of delectables.
The food came in dribs and drabs, so hardly had we finished one selection when the next one appeared. At first it seemed that the little bits each of us had from what was served was woefully inadequate and we wondered if we had got it all wrong, but then we found that each selection had its unique flavour and the contrasts were far superior to having just one starter and one main course. And we also soon found out that we were, almost imperceptibly, getting quite full – not that sensation when one has gorged on sumptuous fare simply because it tasted so good, but in a more satisfying way, without that ‘stuffed’ feeling.
The wasabi ice cream and seaweed jelly with apple flavour we had for desert were also subtle and delectable. And The Dancer said her green tea was brillig.
Stopping off to drop the Zs back at their home, we had a couple of after-dinner drinks and Belgian chocolates, a couple of rollups, and then it was back home to watch Sri Lanka do quite well against the Windies – until sleep overcame the power of concentration.
All in all, an enjoyable, but relatively quiet Saturday night in the city – quite possibly since Java failed to show and RD must have been otherwise engaged.
It’s been a pretty busy time since heading back to the metropolis from the calm serenity of Flowerbook, what with the mundane needing attention on the administrative side and traveling north-ish – to the Sacred City – also work-related. But the little bit of relaxation afforded by access to Shakin’s jungle hideaway and the company of Shakin’ and Mr. Z, made it all worthwhile.
Getting there for a latish lunch, cool brews and the additional extras required to get our heads in the right spaces just hit the spot. Then came a procession of goodies in the form of perfectly spiced and fried prawns – all the way from the Batticaloa lagoon, no less, crispy fried Thilapia from the inland lakes close by and assorted other munchies, which made even the thought of lunch, redundant. Sitting in the ‘living-room’ wadiya and looking out over the rock that slopes down to the series of wattle and daub structures, we saw the progress of the jungle tide – now a lot closer to the accommodation complex, than it was when we last visited. The recent unseasonable deluges had made the usually dry mana grass and scrubby foreground look lush and inviting and the elephants of the area made their presence obvious from the copious amounts of droppings and ripped branches that were observed.
We watched a storm as it approached from the north – first looking like mist over the distant hills and then gradually fading them out with its intensity as it approached us. In no time at all we were in the middle of a deluge that, fortunately, was as short as it was sharp, leaving us with a perfectly gentle rain that allowed the earth to soak it in rather that erode it with its ferocity. It was perfect – and then the sun came out again and the soft breeze that accompanied it made it even better!
As the afternoon drifted into evening, Shakin and Mr. Z meandered over to the rock with their Gin and tonics, smokes and the rest, and Java climbed up to the rustic sleeping spots upstairs and took a well deserved nap – mostly in preparation for the fast approaching night-time binge.
Suffice it to say that Shakin’s shower is a work of rustic art and the cold rush of a full shower-head does wonders for whatever fatigue the body feels, or the woolly-headedness that may have been induced by whatever it took to get to the state. Invigorated and refreshed, it was back to basics and there we were again – almost as if we had never left the spot earlier that evening.
The relatively early stringhopper dinner with the chicken curry, kiri-hodi with hard-boiled eggs in it and pol-sambol, could not have tasted better – all done in earthenware pots over a wood-fire that, somehow, makes the flavour unique. That done and out of the way, it was back to continuing the fascinating discussions over more inebriants. In between, we would walk the rock, drinks in hand, trailing the pungent smoke from the ubiquitous roll-ups and listen to the elephants as they communicated with each other. The last time we were there, a herd of at least twenty (it was too dark, with a faint moon at the time, to make a positive count) surrounded the wadiyas and munched on some of the trees that had been painstakingly planted and protected, with one of them even taking some illuk off a roof. This time, however, they kept their distance – probably with adequate supplies of food available after the recent rains. Later, though, we heard quite clearly, two males going at it – probably in a dominance-related confrontation – and that lasted for at least fifteen minutes. The moon, that will be full shortly, did its thing and bathed the surrounding jungle in a gentle light as the night drifted on – taking us with it.
And so it went – until we crawled up the rustic ladder once more, to bed.
The digression caused by the need to experiment with the attraction-factor of readership to specific subjects left us with an unfinished trip, so now maybe we could get back with continuing from where we left off. Or maybe rewinding to the beginning may make more sense, particularly if you missed what we were on about, so here goes:
Okay, so she was single and played the field. So what?! The fact was that she had it all – looks, a shape that her walk only accentuated, personality that could shift gears to suit the terrain of her companion’s mindscape and, most importantly, she made no bones about being available – no strings! That she was good in bed was a foregone conclusion, but what bothered most of the guys that experienced her excellence was that she seemed so detached when the soirée was over and done with. They made all attempts to get back for more, but usually found that her attention was elsewhere and no amount of attempts to re-kindle the relationship bore fruit. She seemed like a ‘one night stand’ specialist.
She lived alone in a rather stylish, yet tastefully, decorated apartment and her cardinal rule was that her dates were never, ever, entertained within its confines. Her close friends, however, were usually welcome and she took care of them unstintingly – with all the required accoutrements that made for excellent times together. Her taste in music ranged from classics to jazz to rock and, for want of a better term, ‘world-music’ – right up Java’s musical street! She was ‘intellectual’, in a manner of speaking, but never attempted to force her opinions on anyone that may disagree with her views, preferring to avoid contentious debates, but leaving behind traces of her logic to simmer in their heads. Having known Java for many moons, she was comfortable enough around him to, as he put it, ‘talk all kindsa sheet, maan’, and so, one evening when they were by themselves, she told him something of her past that he wasn’t hip to.
She told him that she was so affected by her very first ‘love’ that, having been taken for the proverbial ride and dumped in a way that was both embarrassing and cruel, she determined never to get ‘taken’ ever again. And soon she found out that she could attract just about anyone she wanted simply by looking good and playing the game. She wasn’t out for revenge nor was she a ‘man-hater’ due to her telling experience – no, she enjoyed being with guys she found attractive and savvy, went to bed with them if she felt like it, but having bedded them once, would never date them again. She said she didn’t want to get hung up on any one man and enjoyed where her head was at. There were no complications this way, she said – and Java could well believe her. Sounded okay to him – it was just that he felt she didn’t allow for the chance that she could meet someone who could possibly make it work – for both of them. She responded to indicate that she didn’t really need a man around, either for material or emotional support. She was very content as she was, thank you very much, she said – and Java had to agree, knowing her as he did, that she was certainly secure and extremely well balanced all round.
She said she wasn’t worried about what was said about her in the little ‘social circles’ that is so much of the norm of the city’s makeup, as there was nothing she had to be ashamed or embarrassed about. Her values didn’t have to match those to whom her behaviour seemed improper or immoral, and she couldn’t care less if one of her ‘one-night stands’ badmouthed her in a fit of pique or resentment at not being able to score a second time. However, it seemed to her that the guys she chose to get off with were not the banal crud that would stoop to embarrass her, or more likely, themselves – and anyway she surely wouldn’t give them a second thought – either way.
But most of all, she said, it wasn’t just the sex part of it that turned her on, nor was it letting her one night stands yearn for more of her company or her body – it was that she was free.
And who can argue with that?
Can’t seem to get away from it – I don’t even want to use the word in these opening lines for fear of the ‘flogging a dead horse’ bit. But it was Java who had got back last week with the DVD ‘Descent’, starring Rosario Dawson – she of ‘Death Proof’ fame and obviously a Quentin Tarantino / Robert Rodriguez favourite – that we watched last night. The movie was directed and co-written by Talia Lugacy, a close friend of Dawson and was co-produced by Dawson as well. The plot is pretty simple. A serious college student, played by Dawson, is raped by the college reserve-quarterback, Jared, played by Chad Faust, who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer and who finally persuades her to accompany him to his apartment after a date.
The date-rape changes Dawson’s character, Maya, from a studious loner to someone who frequents clubs and indulges in drugs, sex and learns what intimidation is all about from her association with Adrian, a black DJ, played by Marcus Patrick, whose bullying of a white male admirer, flashes her on the extreme intimidation she felt when Jared kept grunting racial and gender-based epithets as he violated her. Director Lugacy’s technique is absorbing in spite of long and slow sequences and Dawson, who fills the screen for the most part, is quite brilliant in her portrayal of someone who lets her traumatic experience simmer until it reaches boiling point when she gets her own back. And does she ever!
Reviews compare the scene to the one in Gaspar Noe’s ‘Irreversible’, and I can see where they are coming from, but won’t get into details in case you want to catch the movie and for fear of being a spoiler. Suffice it to say that it is somewhat over the top (to put it mildly!), but riveting nonetheless.
So, getting back to the beginning of this post – ‘sex’ is very much in my personal blogosphere these days, unintentional of course, but in my experience these things happen in cycles, so, as Java usually suggests, we jus be goin wit dat flow.
Check the movie out though, it’s a pretty good watch – in spite of the sex!