If Alex Skolnick were to be god, his ambrosia would have included a perfect assortment of notes, perfect ones, bends, hammeron's, pull-off's, tremolo's, grungy power chords, melodious jazz overtones and everything that he just comes up with in his amazing solos.
The solo in Return to Serenity is just the one I need to prove my point.
Nuff said. Let the notes do the talking.
-FIN-
Friday, October 19, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
The Shifting Seas
The society breathes in and out slowly. Much energy has been spent panting and gasping for breath over the years. In spite of the respiratory issues, the society has sung acapella, praising the glory of humans.
" Oh! greatest of the species,
My creator supreme,
You gave me much importance,
You've helped me to dream,
You built me with care,
Empowered me to dare,
Held me close to your heart,
Even in times of despair,
......"
The acapella continues, flattering humans - generations of them, for clutching society's fingers and walking it home safe.
But after every performance of this practiced ritual, when Society dragged itself along, scuffing the floors, and wearily heaving itself in the glum dingy corner, mulling over itself in silence, wondering why at all, in the first place, was it subject to such agony that it needed to be rescued time and time again, caught in the quicksand of indebtedness, sinking deeper and deeper.
Then the answer rings loud and clear, it's the humans themselves.
Bloody species. An abominable that squirms and wallows in it's own creations.
Political philosophies, contrasts of color, schism of sects believing in the omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent, inequality of social structures - the mere tip of the iceberg.
Guns, swords, jackboot heels and blood. The driving force of humans. The opium of the masses.
Heaven for some. Hell for some. Death for society.
This social revolution plays around like waves. Sometimes dancing gracefully to the charm of the moon and the astral features. Sometimes, churning from the underbelly of the ocean and turning tsunami.
We the creators and we the victims.
The acapella always ends with ringing of the death knell for Society. Sigh.
" Oh! greatest of the species,
My creator supreme,
You gave me much importance,
You've helped me to dream,
You built me with care,
Empowered me to dare,
Held me close to your heart,
Even in times of despair,
......"
The acapella continues, flattering humans - generations of them, for clutching society's fingers and walking it home safe.
But after every performance of this practiced ritual, when Society dragged itself along, scuffing the floors, and wearily heaving itself in the glum dingy corner, mulling over itself in silence, wondering why at all, in the first place, was it subject to such agony that it needed to be rescued time and time again, caught in the quicksand of indebtedness, sinking deeper and deeper.
Then the answer rings loud and clear, it's the humans themselves.
Bloody species. An abominable that squirms and wallows in it's own creations.
Political philosophies, contrasts of color, schism of sects believing in the omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent, inequality of social structures - the mere tip of the iceberg.
Guns, swords, jackboot heels and blood. The driving force of humans. The opium of the masses.
Heaven for some. Hell for some. Death for society.
This social revolution plays around like waves. Sometimes dancing gracefully to the charm of the moon and the astral features. Sometimes, churning from the underbelly of the ocean and turning tsunami.
We the creators and we the victims.
The acapella always ends with ringing of the death knell for Society. Sigh.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Haunting.
For years, the desk lay at the same place. It's owners were taking good care of it, no doubt, but it was never moved from the place it stood. Time passed by it like a perennial subway train and the desk felt like it was stuck in a station from which boarding the train was impossible.
But it did make some new friends over the years. The lamp, who refused to respond to any name, the ink bottle named Parker ( That was a nice name, the desk had thought ), a paper weight, which was silent as a stone most of the times, and many more who had stayed for a short, but what the desk would note in the future as happy periods.
But the desk always wished he would see the world, travel from the aristocratic homes in London to the bohemian style cottages in Tokyo. Face the icy cold blasts in Himalayas and also the putrid smells of rotten corpses deep in deserts of Nevada.
The unchanging patterns of Nevada deserts. Unchanging over years and years. Unchanging. Like the very place the desk rests. "How ironic", it said to itself.
It lamented, until the day it was thrown out, unceremoniously on the very road the window next to it overlooked. It then saw the harsh realities of life, panic stricken people on the road running for cover. It also felt miserable for it had this horrible feeling that it might have caught some borers and termites in this entire ordeal.
The soldier was running forward, forever sure of his death, in this world that he saw to be nothing more than a big charnel house. He was clutching in his hand a Mills bomb and there across the road, he saw a desk lying in the middle of the road. He had learned his lessons well in a short time, the lessons that usually dawn upon you when you fight in the war.
He threw the bomb, in a practiced over-arm motion, which would have probably been graceful to suit an orchestra conductor, but only in a situation totally antithesis of what he currently was in.
The desk saw a new object land near it and roll around. While it was busy in sublime thoughts of making a new friend, it saw a bright light and before it could realize, it was disintegrated into splinters of wood.
The soldier had followed his learning well. If the bomb could do damage to a small area, but the shrapnels, oh my god, the shrapnels made a hell of a weapon. Piercing through bodies like spade in moist soil, it injured more than anything a bomb could ever do on it's own.
But it did make some new friends over the years. The lamp, who refused to respond to any name, the ink bottle named Parker ( That was a nice name, the desk had thought ), a paper weight, which was silent as a stone most of the times, and many more who had stayed for a short, but what the desk would note in the future as happy periods.
But the desk always wished he would see the world, travel from the aristocratic homes in London to the bohemian style cottages in Tokyo. Face the icy cold blasts in Himalayas and also the putrid smells of rotten corpses deep in deserts of Nevada.
The unchanging patterns of Nevada deserts. Unchanging over years and years. Unchanging. Like the very place the desk rests. "How ironic", it said to itself.
It lamented, until the day it was thrown out, unceremoniously on the very road the window next to it overlooked. It then saw the harsh realities of life, panic stricken people on the road running for cover. It also felt miserable for it had this horrible feeling that it might have caught some borers and termites in this entire ordeal.
The soldier was running forward, forever sure of his death, in this world that he saw to be nothing more than a big charnel house. He was clutching in his hand a Mills bomb and there across the road, he saw a desk lying in the middle of the road. He had learned his lessons well in a short time, the lessons that usually dawn upon you when you fight in the war.
He threw the bomb, in a practiced over-arm motion, which would have probably been graceful to suit an orchestra conductor, but only in a situation totally antithesis of what he currently was in.
The desk saw a new object land near it and roll around. While it was busy in sublime thoughts of making a new friend, it saw a bright light and before it could realize, it was disintegrated into splinters of wood.
The soldier had followed his learning well. If the bomb could do damage to a small area, but the shrapnels, oh my god, the shrapnels made a hell of a weapon. Piercing through bodies like spade in moist soil, it injured more than anything a bomb could ever do on it's own.
--FIN--
Sunday, June 24, 2007
The pills that work outside the body.
The colorless lights danced around in horrid shapes, the detritus surprisingly rejoining to form myriad images once again. Before one could establish their color, they would disfigure. A curiosity, the one that usually is mentioned to have killed the unfortunate feline, does take time to arise in the mind - about the colors. It's a relaxed curiosity that wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone commit a gruesome murder.
But when the entire image turned red in an instant, the mind screamed of horrors.
"Blood!!" it cried instantly. The meow's turned into shrieks.
The vexation could bear no more and burst out. This was when Sibylle slowly opened her eyes.
The brilliant white was piercing. The fair complexion of her fingers bore the looks of a pitch black silhouette, trying unsuccessfully to block the relentless source.
The blankets were far but a final attempt to grab them left her with displeasing memories of chafe in her arms.
Very true to science, the sounds were heard only now. Initially - subdued, mild and humming.
A little while later - hardly enjoyable, irritating and loud.
The eyes, now adjusted to the brightness around, could see the outline of an adult, female mostly, vascillating the lips uncontrollably. The sounds, delayed, were starting to annoy Sibylle.
"It's 9", "responsibility", "about schedule", "the hell", "aaargh!".
Sibylee had enough. She was already getting signs of headache.
She slapped around the desk looking frantically for something. She very soon did find something but it was her watch. Not exactly matching her search criteria.
The blabbering one seemed to continue although she did take notice of the search. But things changed once she realised the motives of Sibylle. A body that looked haggared and tired, flexed it's muscles, quickly preparing for a jump across the bed. There was not a moment to think. She lurched forward kicking herself quite up in the air, but calculating the trajectory to land on the bed with the outstreached arms long enough to catch hold of the shining piece in Sibylle hand.
It wasn't until she was in mid air that she realised that there was a mistake in the calculation.
She had not anticipated solids in the vial.
Sibylle had finally found what she was frantically hunting for. It was a small glass vial under the severely damaged library book that was long overdue. She popped the lid and threw the contents inside in a single ungraceful motion into her mouth.
If time were to slow down marginally, the ornate scene would be of the pills travelling slowly towards Sibylle's lips - slowly opening, while from another angle, the lady quite high up in air, with hands streaching steadily, reaching out for the vial.
The pills burnt Sibylle's lips with an acrid taste surging through her body.
The female, in mid air till now, landed with a thump on the bed, dislocating Sibylle spatially. But she did manage to hit the glass vial before she began raining abuses.
The pills began to take effect. The lady gradually vanished into thin air. Her weight vanished from the bed slowly, being felt by Sibylle. The legs began to fade. The lady could not believe this was happening. But there was no resisting. The torso vanished and then it was the long neckline. The final image that remained was of her open lips, which once was screaming.
Sibylle was exhausted. With a sigh of relief, she pulled her blanket on herself, and went back to the dancing lights.
The glass vial lay below the bed, engaging in optical gameplay, rolling around horizontally, seemingly morping Sibylle's outline through the blanket as it rolled.
The thin piece of tarnished paper on it read "Anti-Irritant Stuff"
Aside it, in bright red letters set in an elaborate typography and within a bubble box with spikes all around it, it claimed "For the first time as pills. Makes the very reason of your irritation to vanish!!"
-FIN-
But when the entire image turned red in an instant, the mind screamed of horrors.
"Blood!!" it cried instantly. The meow's turned into shrieks.
The vexation could bear no more and burst out. This was when Sibylle slowly opened her eyes.
The brilliant white was piercing. The fair complexion of her fingers bore the looks of a pitch black silhouette, trying unsuccessfully to block the relentless source.
The blankets were far but a final attempt to grab them left her with displeasing memories of chafe in her arms.
Very true to science, the sounds were heard only now. Initially - subdued, mild and humming.
A little while later - hardly enjoyable, irritating and loud.
The eyes, now adjusted to the brightness around, could see the outline of an adult, female mostly, vascillating the lips uncontrollably. The sounds, delayed, were starting to annoy Sibylle.
"It's 9", "responsibility", "about schedule", "the hell", "aaargh!".
Sibylee had enough. She was already getting signs of headache.
She slapped around the desk looking frantically for something. She very soon did find something but it was her watch. Not exactly matching her search criteria.
The blabbering one seemed to continue although she did take notice of the search. But things changed once she realised the motives of Sibylle. A body that looked haggared and tired, flexed it's muscles, quickly preparing for a jump across the bed. There was not a moment to think. She lurched forward kicking herself quite up in the air, but calculating the trajectory to land on the bed with the outstreached arms long enough to catch hold of the shining piece in Sibylle hand.
It wasn't until she was in mid air that she realised that there was a mistake in the calculation.
She had not anticipated solids in the vial.
Sibylle had finally found what she was frantically hunting for. It was a small glass vial under the severely damaged library book that was long overdue. She popped the lid and threw the contents inside in a single ungraceful motion into her mouth.
If time were to slow down marginally, the ornate scene would be of the pills travelling slowly towards Sibylle's lips - slowly opening, while from another angle, the lady quite high up in air, with hands streaching steadily, reaching out for the vial.
The pills burnt Sibylle's lips with an acrid taste surging through her body.
The female, in mid air till now, landed with a thump on the bed, dislocating Sibylle spatially. But she did manage to hit the glass vial before she began raining abuses.
The pills began to take effect. The lady gradually vanished into thin air. Her weight vanished from the bed slowly, being felt by Sibylle. The legs began to fade. The lady could not believe this was happening. But there was no resisting. The torso vanished and then it was the long neckline. The final image that remained was of her open lips, which once was screaming.
Sibylle was exhausted. With a sigh of relief, she pulled her blanket on herself, and went back to the dancing lights.
The glass vial lay below the bed, engaging in optical gameplay, rolling around horizontally, seemingly morping Sibylle's outline through the blanket as it rolled.
The thin piece of tarnished paper on it read "Anti-Irritant Stuff"
Aside it, in bright red letters set in an elaborate typography and within a bubble box with spikes all around it, it claimed "For the first time as pills. Makes the very reason of your irritation to vanish!!"
-FIN-
Monday, May 21, 2007
ThoughtWorks Master Class Series '07
Attention spans are short. I'm no exception to this universal rule. My visit to ThoughtWorks Master Class Series '07, held in the largely unnoticed hotel - Royal Orchid, was not preconceived. At least, it wasn't until late Thursday that the plan was made. TGIF was the day I received the confirmation of my registration.
Three seminars.
Page 1. Broadly representing the knowledge gain during the Refactoring Databases session and a few chosen words of choice by the presenter.
Page 2. Weakly representing what I perceive to be knowledge gain of the Baroque Art in the inner right chamber of Royal Orchid and yet again the pet words of the presenter.
Page 3. The grand finale with nascent thoughts of McVeggie, my fame and fortune, and a few strands of DSP.
Do not get me wrong here. It wasn't that the sessions were boring. They were really interesting and I was glad I went for it.
The pages are just - me.
-- FIN --
Three seminars.
- Refactoring Databases
- Evolutionary Testing
- Domain Specific Knowledges
Page 1. Broadly representing the knowledge gain during the Refactoring Databases session and a few chosen words of choice by the presenter.
Page 3. The grand finale with nascent thoughts of McVeggie, my fame and fortune, and a few strands of DSP.
Do not get me wrong here. It wasn't that the sessions were boring. They were really interesting and I was glad I went for it.
The pages are just - me.
-- FIN --
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Chapter I - The Gathering
With complete disregard to his superiors status, Peter Tobrowsky shouted - "YOU IDIOT".
Although, it's tough to come to a general consensus if the expressions on his peers were of pure laughter or of sheer grief, much can be said about the pale face of his boss.
It would have been hasty to say that the man was in a state of shock. Well, it's no doubt that shock did feature on his face for what seemed like a minute or two but that was merely the beginning of what a certain biologist, whose presence did nothing more than bore the group, mention to be analogous to mutative reactions of the Sperm Whale during the proactive summer season.
It would do injustice to Peter, to mention the fate of the biologist at this juncture but lest it be forgotten, it can be concluded that two broken teeth and swollen tongue sadly robbed him of the ability to pronounce Sperm of the Sperm Whale.
The man, who was to become popular for quite a long term in the office as "Idiot", no doubt went through a turbulent mixture of feelings in his mind and his aching heart, resulting in the precipitation so deeply red that his face, which was pale, had drained all the blood to his clenched fists.
Had it been pin drop silent around the place, many had reasoned that they could have clearly heard the man's teeth grind against themselves for a while, but alas, with the moaning and groaning of the same certain biologist, it was hard to hear such subtle noises.
The egoistic mathematicians who had, quickly, not only gathered around the scene, but also had counted the number of minutes for which the "Idiot" stood motionlessly, the number of women who had actually gathered, the diagonal distance amongst the shortest of them and the heaviest of them, and many more of such divine facts, were quick to note that - resting all within the boundaries of mathematics, as a solid structure has a certain volume, the clenched fists could hold no more blood in them and it all gushed back into the face.
The chemists, who until then had tried hard to figure out a way to churn a poison out of the clothing of one of their less fortunate colleagues, mentioned that it was time the reaction turned violent.
While the "Idiot" shot forward and landed a thick punch into Peter's face, the chemists abandoned their hope of extracting poison and had driven the clothing deep into the throat of the same certain biologist hoping it would do the job.
The scene had turned violent and was just the way Peter had imagined it to turn out.
Although, it's tough to come to a general consensus if the expressions on his peers were of pure laughter or of sheer grief, much can be said about the pale face of his boss.
It would have been hasty to say that the man was in a state of shock. Well, it's no doubt that shock did feature on his face for what seemed like a minute or two but that was merely the beginning of what a certain biologist, whose presence did nothing more than bore the group, mention to be analogous to mutative reactions of the Sperm Whale during the proactive summer season.
It would do injustice to Peter, to mention the fate of the biologist at this juncture but lest it be forgotten, it can be concluded that two broken teeth and swollen tongue sadly robbed him of the ability to pronounce Sperm of the Sperm Whale.
The man, who was to become popular for quite a long term in the office as "Idiot", no doubt went through a turbulent mixture of feelings in his mind and his aching heart, resulting in the precipitation so deeply red that his face, which was pale, had drained all the blood to his clenched fists.
Had it been pin drop silent around the place, many had reasoned that they could have clearly heard the man's teeth grind against themselves for a while, but alas, with the moaning and groaning of the same certain biologist, it was hard to hear such subtle noises.
The egoistic mathematicians who had, quickly, not only gathered around the scene, but also had counted the number of minutes for which the "Idiot" stood motionlessly, the number of women who had actually gathered, the diagonal distance amongst the shortest of them and the heaviest of them, and many more of such divine facts, were quick to note that - resting all within the boundaries of mathematics, as a solid structure has a certain volume, the clenched fists could hold no more blood in them and it all gushed back into the face.
The chemists, who until then had tried hard to figure out a way to churn a poison out of the clothing of one of their less fortunate colleagues, mentioned that it was time the reaction turned violent.
While the "Idiot" shot forward and landed a thick punch into Peter's face, the chemists abandoned their hope of extracting poison and had driven the clothing deep into the throat of the same certain biologist hoping it would do the job.
The scene had turned violent and was just the way Peter had imagined it to turn out.
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