Language for human beings is significantly more complex than code for computers...we're just programmed to enjoy thick layers of linguistic fat, wrapped around flimsy, almost non existent skeletal frameworks. Trying to strip an idea down to its bare essentials while maintaining relevant details is as much like a physical workout as writing software.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Sickness
It is sickness to be obsessed with winning, it is sickness to be obsessed with using martial arts, it is sickness to be obsessed with putting forth all one has learned. It is sickness to be obsessed with offense, and it is also sickness to be obsessed with defense. It is also sickness to be obsessed with getting rid of sickness. To fix the mind obsessively on anything is considered sickness. Since all of these various sicknesses are in the mind, the thing is to tune the mind by getting rid of such afflictions.
-
Yagyu Munenori
The Book of Family Traditions
Monday, April 04, 2011
Really?
Pinaki Joddar yep...
Drona Sharma Is this like 'the earth moved for me' or like 'leg it-there is an earth quake'
Yep...loquacious is what I am feeling today. So if I imagined the earthquake and I imagined the twitter stream following it, shouldn't that leave everyone else around me wondering if they are a figment of my imagination?
More importantly, should I be worried about being the figment of someone elses imagination, like a character in a dream, conjured up in an instant as a hacked up, steroid-ed version of a repressed childhood memory, fully programmed and ready to play my part. In this instant, how do I know that this is not the first instant of my life. After all people in dreams must have back stories too.
How do I know that this movie didn't start five minutes ago, with me beginning a blogpost about what is really real?
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Christmas Carol
The phone rings as I'm heading into the shower. A righteous Tam sounding kid on the other end tells my mother that my father is dead. She tells him she will call him back and turns to me. "Venky died" is all she says. Bullet time kicks in, everything slows down.
Each thump in my chest reverberates metalically against my eardrums. I look at mum. She looks horrified. And sorrowful.
I look at my stepfather. He is motionless. He's looking carefully at me, gauging my reaction.
Mum is saying something but I cant hear her, the thumping is too loud.
And then it stops.
In the silence I hear my own voice, promising my father that I would stand for his dignity. I listen to myself. I look to see if I compromised on that promise. I dont see anything inconsistent. Nothing stands out like a sore thumb. Nothing needs to be washed with tears. Nothing needs to be bandaged with guilt.
All that remains to be managed is the physicality of things.
I call back. The righteous kid answers. I ask him how it happened. He starts giving me an explanation that doesnt answer my question. I ask him again. He gives me a longer explanation. I ask him if my father is dead or alive. He still doesnt answer my question and keeps explaining. He is trying to explain to me why he's qualified to talk to me about the morality of what I'm doing to my father.
All I want are the facts. I tell him to cut the bullshit. That snaps him awake. He tells me my father is alive and asleep. I tell my mother. She takes the phone and hangs up.
Later my stepfather calls and has a decent conversation with the kid and explains why its a bad idea to use melodrama when facts will do.
Nothing changes, everything transforms. In one phone call, I go from uncertainty, doubt and fear of guilt, to being certain, clear and guilt free.
Each thump in my chest reverberates metalically against my eardrums. I look at mum. She looks horrified. And sorrowful.
I look at my stepfather. He is motionless. He's looking carefully at me, gauging my reaction.
Mum is saying something but I cant hear her, the thumping is too loud.
And then it stops.
In the silence I hear my own voice, promising my father that I would stand for his dignity. I listen to myself. I look to see if I compromised on that promise. I dont see anything inconsistent. Nothing stands out like a sore thumb. Nothing needs to be washed with tears. Nothing needs to be bandaged with guilt.
All that remains to be managed is the physicality of things.
I call back. The righteous kid answers. I ask him how it happened. He starts giving me an explanation that doesnt answer my question. I ask him again. He gives me a longer explanation. I ask him if my father is dead or alive. He still doesnt answer my question and keeps explaining. He is trying to explain to me why he's qualified to talk to me about the morality of what I'm doing to my father.
All I want are the facts. I tell him to cut the bullshit. That snaps him awake. He tells me my father is alive and asleep. I tell my mother. She takes the phone and hangs up.
Later my stepfather calls and has a decent conversation with the kid and explains why its a bad idea to use melodrama when facts will do.
Nothing changes, everything transforms. In one phone call, I go from uncertainty, doubt and fear of guilt, to being certain, clear and guilt free.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Thinking about women today
“Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire philosophy of life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself….. The man who is proudly certain of his own value, will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest, the hardest to conquer – because only the possession of a heroine will give him the sense of an achievement, not the possession of a brainless slut.” ~ Ayn Rand
Thanks Trevor!
Thanks Trevor!
Monday, September 27, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
only proof of reality then unless it was a group hallucination, the twitter stream would bear out that what I speak is the absolute truth rather than perceived reality. I have no idea why I wrote so much, but I suppose I must
be feeling loquacious. :)