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Fag end of a smoked day

Chase deadlines and see your life evaporate. Someday I’d like to plug and level the sinkhole in which days go flushing down. Then sit planning another budget trip to places I fancy for their quirks and weird ways. Give me that heap of fried spiders and crispy beetles, from the Khmer paradise, for a snack today and I am likely to bite it, given enough push from that little monster who goaded a vegetarian to chew on god-knows-whose-eggs and chicken.

God made men and then made them earn their living. Why didn’t he arrange for a lifelong stipend too? That little pocket Bible is messing me up again. James, Luke, Matthew and others. 

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RIP Marquez

Your “Strange Pilgrims” left an impression forever. The real textures that you wove in your vivid prose made me look at the possibilities that life holds. If not for “Nobody Writes to the Colonel” I wouldn’t have known what it is to live through the evening of one’s life.

I have lived by your words and shall continue to look upto your prose as I take the highways of the world. 

I have learned so much with you all, I have learned that everybody wants to live on top of the mountain, without knowing that true happiness is obtained in the journey taken & the form used to reach the top of the hill.

Tomorrow is never guaranteed to anyone, young or old. Today could be the last time to see your loved ones, which is why you mustn’t wait; do it today, in case tomorrow never arrives. I am sure you will be sorry you wasted the opportunity today to give a smile, a hug, a kiss, and that you were too busy to grant them their last wish.

Rest in Peace Don ! 

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Bike, sun and the landscape. So, evenings when a good long ride is a distant dream, make merry watching bollywood songs with bikes and Indian landscapes. Grab frames when you come across some, file them away in a folder and roll them again and again.That’s being ‘roadsick’ (much like homesick for the road). 

Bike, sun and the landscape. So, evenings when a good long ride is a distant dream, make merry watching bollywood songs with bikes and Indian landscapes. Grab frames when you come across some, file them away in a folder and roll them again and again.That’s being ‘roadsick’ (much like homesick for the road). 

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"She always had the same question. Why in God’s name are you still married to this asshole? Lady, your children are grown. You have your own credit cards. You’re the one with life force. Can’t you see he’s just wallpaper? It’s not 1850. This is New York. Run, baby, run!"

Zadie Smith’s woman can speak only in her imaginative world. Out in the real, they are still married, still in the footsteps of the man and no one speaks out loud.. that the man is an asshole. That would mean their choice was bad. How can that be?

(Story - Miss Adele Amidst the Corset, Zadie Smith)

Tags: shortstory
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"… although I had traveled to many places around the world, I didn’t know enough about it (music). So I went to Jordan. There, people told me the desert had a sound, and so I recorded the sound of the desert. When I traveled to Canada for the first time the native people I met there had told me that I had to listen to the sound of the falling snow. I’ve lived there for 20 years and it was only recently that I really started hearing that."

— Mercan Dede

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That bike needn’t be an Enfield. Ride. Any steed. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t matter to you how you look to others or what they might think of your bike. And if you do have a better, legendary engine underneath… well, good for you. 

The vid is from enfieldriders and the gang there has made a neat little promo for their startup with this vid. Loved the subtle taste and the monsoon landscapes. 

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"Adioses" - Our turn to read

The song of our brief time spent together was as lyrical as Neruda’s poetry. Not measured, but always the right amount to savour the moments shared together and look back at the road traveled together with affection. It only feels appropriate to read him once again, and “Adioses” (or Goodbyes) at that - 

Goodbye, goodbye, to one place or another,
to every mouth, to every sorrow,
to the insolent moon, to weeks
which wound in the days and disappeared,
goodbye to this voice and that one stained
with amaranth, and goodbye
to the usual bed and plate,
to the twilit setting of all goddbyes,
to the chair that is part of the same twilight,
to the way made by my shoes.

I spread myself, no question;
I turned over whole lives,
changed skin, lamps, and hates,
it was something I had to do,
not by law or whim,
more of a chain reaction;
each new journey enchained me;
I took pleasure in places, in all places.

And, newly arrived, I promptly said goodbye
with still newborn tenderness
as if the bread were to open and suddnenly
flee from the world of the table.
So I left behind all languages,
repeated goodbyes like an old door,
changed cinemas, reasons, and tombs,
left everywhere for somewhere else;
I went on being, and being always
half undone with joy,
a bridegroom among sadnesses,
never knowing how or when,
ready to return, never returning.

It’s well known that he who returns never left,
so I traced and retraced my life,
changing clothes and planets,
growing used to the company,
to the great whirl of exile,
to the great solitude of bells tolling.

(Thank you D0rkalici0u5 for the translation.)

Tags: Neruda Poetry
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Early Morning Ride

Flowers and flowersellers. In this city they are best seen in the early hours. By mid day the garlands and strings would be adorning the deities and the lovely ladies of the south. The sight’s charm is not in its literal ways, by the imagination that it spawns as one watches the ladies delicately work their way with the flowers and pass them on to the buyers. A merchandise as this, I can trade all my life in. 

The hours are not keenly watched in the morning. It is as though everything is pegged to the sight of the pale red sun rising up above the flyovers and high rises. As soon as that happens a palpable change in the rhythms of people and places is felt. Riding around in these early hours helps one notice the usual with an unhurried eye. It is remarkable how unusual it begins to feel, for the modern city life has seldom left opportunities to slow down and witness these sights. 

Tags: ride city morning
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"When beholding a majestic 13,000-year-old Eucalyptus tree, how can human arrogance dare deny its reality under the blindness of dogma?"

— At a time when 40% of the American public don’t believe Earth is more than 6,000 years old, Rachel Sussman’s magnificent photographs of the oldest living things in the world stand not only as a masterpiece of art but also a masterpiece of science communication.  (via explore-blog)

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Distracted. This afternoon. With possibilities that are.