All the AdaDerana SMS alerts seem to be either cricket match scores or War scores.

To the Sri Lankan majority, I guess it’s the same thing.

I for one am disconnecting.

Deja Vu

May 10, 2009

Is there any difference between something you don’t know and something you don’t remember?

Been studying the derivation of Fermi-Dirac stats alongside a little m-theory just to get to my mind off the fact that I haven’t gotten laid for the last three weeks. And every time I  grasp some part of the math, there’s an undeniable tingle in my temporal lobe suggesting that I’ve been here & done this before.

It’s not a feeling of knowing, it’s a feeling of remembering.

For the record, I think I’m already crazy, so the notion of being crazy all over again is not a viable hypothesis.

However I do think I need to get laid. Soon.

The world is getting ready once again to celebrate your birth, enlightenment and passing away.

After 2500 years, the words you uttered have become a religion. Humans divided by race and culture claim it to be theirs, and have built identities around it. Fairy tales have been written, bloody wars have been fought, civilizations have been seduced and conquered, men have turned into demons, and worst of all- you are being worshiped as a God. Even the tree you sat beside is being treated like a sub-divinity.

Did you know this would happen? Did you have a choice? Perhaps more importantly, do I have a choice?

One more thing, after achieving Enlightenment, why didn’t you go back to Yashodara and Rahula? It’s paradoxical you see, if you really attained enlightenment, how come you had a sense of purpose and a ego to call yourself a Buddha?

You said that the only constant in the world is change. If so, how did you conquer your desires? How did you cultivate a mind which is not subjected to change?

Tell me are you for real? Is enlightment for real?

You’re a great poet, and an old-soul, I’ll give you that. But the decisions you’ve made, and the life you lived are clear signs that we mortals can never live in reality and attain enlightment at the same time.

Yours without faith,

Me

The Girl with Specs

May 1, 2009

So I drive along the pitakotte junction minding my own business and there’s this huge traffic jam. We’re all perfectly still; me the other cars, and the big private bus which has blocked the road.

The universe has its own way of amusement, and so a young woman brimming with youth and overflowing with sexual confidence walks across the suspended street. She’s wearing a simple white top, a blue denim, and one of those neardy glasses so characteristic with the naughtyamerica videos that feature my-first-sex-teacher, that I feel the tension in several parts of my body.

Her poise is backed with a rhythm that gets stronger with every pair of eyes that gets lost in those tightly held breasts. She smiles at me and holds a gaze which is a rare sight with Sri Lankan women.

She was aware of the three wide-eyed schoolboys on the footboard of the bus that were unable to stop staring at her. She looks at them and smiles. The boys obviously surprised and taken aback by the boldness of the woman, try to look away.

She looks at me, nods and dissapears in to the traffic.

412px-richardwidmore503

The only charactor in Lost, which seems to be unaffected by time. He’s also the only brown-eyed guy with the sufficient amount of charistma to make me swing the other way.

The guy seems to be a mythical creature hiding behind the scenes of the chaos and drama in the world’s most acclaimed TV series. He’s seen three generations of leaders in the island and was probably influential for their ascensions as well. There are many theories behind his strange existence, but as with everything else in the universe I believe that he’s just a piece in the grand scheme of things.

The serendipity of Richard Alpert is that there really is a guy called Richart Alpert in real life. Known as Ram Dass, he’s an old soul and a harvard professor who experimented with LSD. Both on a professional and recreational basis.

I’ve been reading his book and it’s also induced a sort of LSD affect on me. But I dunno, I’ve been drinking my own blood for the last two weeks and eating lots and lots of pills, which could also be the reason.

I just realized that I can gulp up more than five tablets in one go. With only a teeny weeny bit of water. Yaay!

We anonymous wayward bloggers have the ability to change our alter-egos whenever we wish. As long as we don’t give a fuck about comments and readership, there is no real incentive to build up a ‘character’, like in real life. We can be ourselves, we can write about what we really feel, at any given moment and get away with it.

In this blog, I’ve been many things. A jerk, a saint, an epicurian, an alcoholic, a pessimist, an optimist, a boy with an innocent heart, a guy with a big dick, a man with humility, an iconoclast to sinhala-buddhism, an avid activist against marriage, a seeker of true love, and many more…

This is because I can let go of my ego. And build another one in the very next instant.

The same cannot be said for bloggers who choose to reveal their real-world identity. Or for bloggers who choose to create a fixed blogging identity. They are forever prisoners of a sole ego. And when something goes wrong, they try vehemntly to defend themselves. And the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Nibras Bawa fell spectacularly yesterday. I bet it hurt. A lot.

The only blogger that I’ve seen capable of blogging without anonymity is Indi. Remember once, some guy made a filty comment on his blog using the name “Indi”, but the real Indi never took it down. Sittingnut’s threats and accusations may have stirred him a little but he never moderated those comments.

The rest of the blogsphere still has a lot to learn.

Conditional Love

April 6, 2009

Java’s post got me thinking.

The world aspires the notion of unconditional love, which I think is due to some sort of hippie spiritual awakening that happened in the late 90s. But it was just a fad and no one really understood it. In real life, we are much more interested in practicing conditional love.

Marriage (a social construct upheld by law) is of course the epi-centre of conditional love. Prostitution is it’s mirror image. Whether you like it or not, conditional sex and conditional love are more or less the different sides of the same coin. It’s a bargain or an agreement between two people. Sometimes it’s three or more, but it’s still the same.

Love belongs to the present moment. Whenever you cling on to the notion of a past life or consumed by the fear of the future, love becomes unreal. It’s simply not love anymore.

No wonder there’s so much jealousy, hatred, anxiety, and fear in the world. We don’t love each other, we love the notion of a future filled with love.

Too much Testosterone?

April 1, 2009

She’s been watching me watching her. Our eyes meet, and she instantly looks down, with a I’m-sorry-to-have-flirted-with-you type of grin on her face.

I lock my computer and move to her table with my cup of tea.

“Good morning.”

She lightens up and acknowledges. I let out a breath of relief. Usually encounters like these end up with a humph, snort and a i-don’t-want-to-get-raped-by-you sort of look.

Our conversation jumps from excellent wifi speeds to stray dogs and then to the hazards of long-term relationships.

“How old are you by the way,” she slips in the question. “Thirty?”

“No. Do I look thirty?” I ask heartily, but she shrugs and becomes silent.

“In my mid twenties.” She obviously needed an answer.

“Are you Married?”

“No. Do you see a ring on my finger?” I fired back.

We were both silent for awhile. Thank god the cup of tea was not empty.

“Oya hari wasai neda?” [Translation: You get angry easily?]

I was a little pushed, but I wasn’t angry.

I wanted to end the conversation on a lighter note, so I complimented her on her long earrings and made an excuse to leave.

On my way down, I kept wondering if what she said was true? Do I come off as imposing? I do speak very little. And maybe I don’t show my emotions as well as I should. Perhaps it’s the testosterone.

This was going to be my first Hindu Funeral. So I was kinda excited and looking forward to it! I was also going to meet my old buddies from uni.

“Hey do you think we should take pictures? We could use them to like get a reward or sumthing if someone happens to be a suicide bomber.”

I clenched my jaw, trying to hide the bitterness in my stomach. Somethings never change.

Siva’s father had died yesterday after three years staying at the hospital. His sister is still studying for an HNDE, and his mum retired. He has become the man of the house. And generally a more sensible human being.

I gave my hand. And he hugged me back.

“He was a technical officer,” Siva said as I paid my respects. “He was very proud that I became an engineer. It was the only thing he kept saying for the last few months.”

Siva’s family was originally from Vavuniya. They’re now residing in Wellawatte, in a small apartment; Siva, mum, sister, gandpa and grandma. Apparently he has no privacy. Can’t even watch porn and jerk off, he says, with a chuckle. But the twinkle in his earnest eyes tells me that he’s content with the way things are.

“You’re a buddhist, right?” he asks me. “Do you believe in life after death?”

“Not really,” I reply. “I think that there was Nothing before birth, and there will be Nothing after death.”

“You’re still the pessimist I see,” Siva laughs.

The ceremony started, and for the next 30 minutes Siva cried. He wore a white traditional sarong and nothing on top. While the priest was sitting in a corner and babbling some voodoo stuff with king coconuts and colourful herbs surrounding him, the disciple guided Siva, mum and sister to do what they had to. The body was sprinkled with blessed water several times over as the chanting got louder.

Even if it was ridiculous, at least they knew what they were doing.

I later learned that his father’s brother was not allowed to come to Colombo, and was stopped at the Madawachchiywa checkpoint. It seems they had all the documents (National ID included) but the police were “not sure”.