Subject To Change

This blog has been moved

St. Fallen — Fri, 22 May 2009 18:49:06 +0000

and adjoined with its predecessor

and can be found here: http://saintfallen.wordpress.com

.My Words

St. Fallen — Tue, 19 May 2009 15:36:00 +0000

I posted earlier saying I won’t be posting my poetry anymore, BUT what I meant was in writing, as in, words.
I will however be posting them in other forms, audio or video.

I wrote something the other day before I left for Kandy, and I asked two fellow bloggers to record a reading of it. Both did, but I’m only allowed to post one of them, so here it is:

Pseud0random reading My Words (Click here if the audio player doesn’t work)

I won’t be able to post any covers since my brother broke the microphone, so the only way I can record stuff now is with either mine or my dad’s phone. Recording on mine sound shit, though. I either sound stoned or like I’m speaking from the grave. So I think I’ll try sneaking my dad’s phone.

This post will be updated as soon as I manage to record a poem of Pseud0random’s (:

Await!

.While I Was Away

St. Fallen — Sun, 17 May 2009 06:37:00 +0000

Always wanted to take a train, never did until yesterday. With only two weeks off from college I thought I should make best use of the little time I have, so I decided to take a train to Kandy over the weekend. Packed a camera, batteries, and a notepad. Went with a friend who stays there, we got dropped off at the Fort Railway Station at 6.30AM, Saturday, but with only 4 people in front of us at the queue, the tickets sold out. So we took a bus instead, and I ended up taking a train to Gampola from Kandy, and from Kandy back to Colombo. Meanwhile, my brother was at home taking better pictures than I could manage with the shitty camera. Since I’m too exhausted from footboarding to write about the trip, or post the shitty pictures, I’ll just let you’ll have a look at some of his photography.

Taken with the Nokia 5800, in black and white, high contrast:

In sepia tone, high contrast:

Square. Get it?

.An Apple Never Falls Far From The Tree

St. Fallen — Wed, 13 May 2009 16:18:45 +0000

We are born into a world of ready-made information. The moment we first open our eyes – from black to white, reds and yellows, to the wide array of colours, shades and tones – we are treated through our senses with so much information. But can we really call this information?

Let’s consider them as merely sensory details, just raw data entering our eyes, ears, nostrils, tongue and nerve-endings. There is so much we could do with all these sensations. There are so many combinations of sight and sound, taste and smell, and touch etc. And yet, how do we interpret these?

Children are shown pictures of an apple with the wording “Apple”, then pointed at and read aloud:
“This is an apple”.
Then they are shown the same for a tree:
“This is a tree”.
These two are then put together and they are told:
“Apples come from trees”.

Over 2 million years of human existence we have developed our intelligence and made sure it is carried on through the process of learning. However, it seems as though there is more teaching (and preaching) going on than actual seeking of knowledge.

No one challenges the fact that apples come from trees – it is readily accepted, no salt or sugar added, just straight off the rocks, undiluted “truth”. But what if it isn’t so?

What if someone screwed up somewhere in their perception of apples and trees, and sent it down from generation to generation. No one bothered correcting them because either no one knew better, or it was simply too stupid to even need to correct. And as it went on down the line, the others forgot, and soon it became accepted. How could that happen? Think about it.

What if enough people believe in an absurdity?
Then it HAS to be true, right?
What is the probability of a mass delusion?
Is it even a delusion when a majority have accepted it to be a reality?

What is real?
There is no one reality.
There is no “the Reality”.
There is only my reality, and your reality, and his and hers and their reality.
None of these have to be the same, and they usually are not, as much as you may think they are.

What we perceive to be reality is simply the way in which we choose to understand the world around us.
It is merely a construct, based on the inputs of our senses, forged by the process of our minds.
Every individual has their own reality, and thus, every individual has their own delusion.

So, collectively, does it all add up to one big reality? Where it all balances out, opposites cancelling out and similarities adding up? Or just one big delusion?

Apples come from trees, don’t they?

.Lights Out

St. Fallen — Sun, 03 May 2009 17:53:00 +0000

Woke up sweating this morning, power had just gone out and the fan had stopped whirring. Hadn’t realized, thought Dad had turned it off to wake me up. Get out of bed and go downstairs, Dad’s gone out, no one’s on the computer, UPS blinks red. Power cut. 10.30, I’m hungry, brother peels a mango, tosses one over. “Let’s play carrom”, I refuse, I suck too much at the game and he’s had a bit of practice of late. He insists, and sets the board though I’m more interested in the mango. He breaks, I’m black, I strike, though quite laid back. He scores a few, I just watch, wait until he asks me to play. He’s obviously winning, I’ve finished my mango, I get up and leave. Come back to the same spot, I ask him to get out the Uno cards, I’ve always had better luck with that. We play, I win, one more, I win. And another, I win. On and on about 8 times or so, I won. Then finally he win. Dad gets back home, he joins in. Brother wins, I come second, after going on for about 10 minutes against Dad. Afterwards brother and Dad play carrom, brother lost. We go outside, it’s 4PM the power’s yet to return. Brother’s playing the guitar, I grab Dad’s phone. Go out and start taking pictures. Picture quality turns out better than earlier, probably due to the lighting, out in the sun. Mess around with the few settings, I chose black and white this time, take a few shots, something’s missing. Turn up the contrast, muuuuch better.

As much as they might look like poses, he was actually playing when I took these, which could mean he poses while playing. The string looks like they’re going haywire in some of them, an effect I like. None of these have been edited, a few have been cropped. I’ve decided to continue these “photography” posts, as amateur as they maybe. All of these were taken with a Nokia 5800, Colour Tone set to Black & White, and Contrast set to High. Everything else on Auto.

Bro took a video of me covering a J. Tillman song, not going to post it here though, since it’s already on Kottu. (:

.No More Poetry

St. Fallen — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 21:33:18 +0000

Yes, Jerry, you may celebrate.
I won’t be posting any of my poems here anymore.
That will be all.
Move along now.

.Nobody’s Fault But My Own

St. Fallen — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 20:52:54 +0000

Nobody’s Fault But My Own by Beck (lyrics)

.What Do I Need?

St. Fallen — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 18:43:06 +0000

Who do I get it from?

Which question do I answer first
Does it even matter?

I seem confused, is what I’ve been told.
   Enjoy your life, you’re just a kid.
You need to talk to someone.
   Have you thought about counselling?
There’s nothing wrong with you.
   You don’t have to change.
Freak. Psycho.
   You’re just different, that’s all.
   They don’t see you like I do.
Unique. Special. Gifted.
You’re just a kid, what’s bothering you?
   Just a kid…
He is very talented
but needs to be constantly checked
to ensure he does not go astray.

Where am I heading?
Where will this take me?
Will you be there
Waiting to save me
Or will I never know
Who it is I need
Will time only show
What I need from you.

.Plain Tea

St. Fallen — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 02:40:00 +0000

Woken up at noon today, by my brother saying we were to have lunch at a relatives place. Got up and got ready. Got there, nothing to do, no one to speak to. Ate lunch, wondered who the hell the little kids were. An uncle shows off his dual-SIM Chinese phone, goes on to talk about Tamil gangsters in the UK, and how Tamils are great at creating their own businesses. Familiar faces entered, finally someone to talk to. Everyone’s finished eating, the kids are playing out in front, I see Dad’s phone on the table. Snatch it, get onto Twitter, scroll through the updates, don’t feel like saying much. End up on camera, take a look around. Fuzzy, try changing settings. Sepia tone looks best, click. Turn off flash, click. Mess around with exposure, click. Contrast, click. Suddenly feel energetic, zooming in and out. Move about clicking at random, the display becomes my eyes, my sight, my vision. Capturing still-frames hoping to hold on to a thought, or steal one right out of another, and freeze it in one place, to look at again. Don’t understand grown-ups being camera shy. Asked no one to pose or smile, ‘cheese’ didn’t slip off any tongue. I felt alive, in such a strange way, just looking at the moments I’d caught, like bugs in a jar, birds in a cage. Tea was served, “plain tea or milk tea”, plain, please. Relatives do not understand the concept of “plain”, ginger does not go into plain tea. Not enough sugar, I take 3 teaspoons. Never mind, I’ve got pictures to take, moments to steal. Grandma is sitting outside, drinking her milk tea. Pouring it onto a saucer, this is how tea should be drunk. Carrom board comes out, game on. I choose to spectate, watching from the sidelines, in sepia tone. It’s not only the fingers that snap, even the toes curl and snap, so intense. The kids have come in, they all join in watching the game. Everyone’s together now, though I hardly know their names. I have no more pictures to take, I am fully immersed in this time and place. I felt great.

.Fire Above, Ice Below

St. Fallen — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 20:39:29 +0000

The woeful silence and wind’s reflection
Of your body’s pale ode, an icy fortress of blood and ages
Sky fire above, ice below the hearth
Fall away from me to that citadel at the end of time
Where death sleeps and dreams of your buried pain
There has never been a silence like this before
There will never be an ode like this again

- Agalloch