That 18th Floor.

Featured Image: “Neon Dreams” by Hiranya Mukherjee using a Motorola device, Edited and scaled by Tuneer Chakrabarti.

There’s often a chill in the air that high up.” I remember saying, “Take my coat, It’ll do you good“. She would smile and just run up those stairs as I stood in her momentary lapse. I’ve brought myself to a place where I’m unable to recollect who it was that I had once said it to.

It’s fairly wierd how I remember the scene not from my perspective but staring at myself in an elevator. There’s a few jump cuts here and there. My personal blackouts that I’ve achieved from my tiny fall from grace.

That twinge of lament aside, that 18th floor has stood for so much more now. It has been a place of meditation. A place close to my heart. A forge for new beginnings. An altar for a few ends. But I’m not going to be rambling about all my stories just yet.

Even when the sun has let the night flow in, I’ve seen my share of shadows haunting places that we’d been to. This speaks true for the 18th floor too, but in a more positive light. When I look out onto the vast stretches of neon parading towards me, I feel happy. I remember when I did’nt have a care in the world; an I have a definite goal for what I want to be again.

“So I got high when I met you
I got high to forget you
I feel pain, I don’t want to
But I have to, yeah, I have to”

– Move on. by Mike Posner

I’ve taken my decisons. Firmly this time.
I’ve assured myself that I’m not broken.
I’ve started on a better time.

With resolve.
Neil

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An Introspective into Art

Featured Image: “Entrance to the Kolkata Arts Lane Festival”, by Tuneer Chakrabarti using Mi Dual Cam Setup via Redmi Note 6 Pro,

There come times in the life of a person where he must let himself be violently punched into reality by his peers who wish to drag him by the neck to say, an event celebrating the Arts. All jokes aside, a very scholarly friend of mine took upon him to be a huge nerd and drag me by the collar of my neck to the aforementioned festival. All things considered, it was a far better an experience that I could have bargained for.

My Friend, let’s call him Hero, isn’t much on the talkative, boisterous, gregarious side. If you could go around the fact that he subconciously dresses like an absolute, pardon my language, f***boy. And, I generally do not “swear” on my blog. But there’s no other class of attire to best describe his apparently “wholesome” appearance. So Hero here’s quite punctual and pretty much arrives quite on time.

We take the long way to the location. By a long way I mean the apparent wrong way, but regardless we do end up where we pretty much surmise the Festival is at. Hero here, did I mention he does not really talk much? Oh yes I did. So, we’re both looking at each other trying to spot the festival when we become pretty sure of the location as some incomprihensible traditional tribal trap, or Baul music wafts through the air as a clear indication of the late stage capitalistic mess that we’ve hauled ourselves inside of.

On the more introspective side of things, the neo-liberal, surrealist and post-modern take on art seem to coagulate in a hypermesh of sorts in the geo-spatial location that seems to be such a part of what Kolkata is as well as clearly defined to be something completely different. Art in such form has considered itself capable to shed itself of the Renaissance dogma of seperation of the art from the experience of the art. In an interactive sense art had now taken upon a form intrinsic to it’s viewer wherein the viewer both supplements as well as complements the art by being a part of the notion or the idea of the art in a sense.

And then we have tea that costs 40 INR. If the above paragraph did’nt really hurt your noggin’, then I’m sure the previous line did. It was the tiniest conventional cup with tea that’s not half-bad to be honest, but overpriced. But then again, I’m no expert on tea. But I’m still under the notion that we got ripped off, in that grand celebration of late stage capitalis— I mean Arts. But irregardless of my quips not being witty enough, It was an amazing time nonetheless.

We ran into people we have’nt met for a while. Fleeting hugs and speedly catching up in remininsce to where we are in life right now. As the night dawned and the fairy lights gave the entire area a hallucinogenic appearance, we took a few more pictures with different people all from time gone and time yet to be spent. In retrospective, it was an enriching experience in all it’s pontifical pretentiousness.

Still Kitschy,
Neil

The Closet Insomniac

Featured Image: A 1955 OIL PAINTING BY DR. SEUSS. PHOTO: THE ART OF DR SEUSS AND LISS GALLERY, VIA THE GUARDIAN.
Featured Blog: https://justmeandmydogsite.wordpress.com

(Neil’s notes: This is a collaborative effort between this blog and Brielle’s blog. Go check it out, it’s absolutely amazing how she writes :3)

First off, I’d like to thank the talented and wonderful Neil for doing this collab with me!

Secondly, I’d just like to say that this isn’t a research paper, this isn’t a post on how to eliminate insomnia from your life — this is simply the what my experience was.

Insomnia. It’s not exactly the greatest thing ever. And I think it’s something that isn’t talked about enough. I mean, we all joke about it on occasion and there are some of us who have it serious enough to need medication…but there is a large majority of people with insomnia that don’t do anything. That was me.

I called myself a closet insomniac. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I just got up, had my coffee and rubbed my eyes…and got to work. I didn’t tell anyone about not being able to fall asleep until four am and then having to wake up at six. Those early morning hours spent tossing, turning and laying there awake trying to sleep. I was certainly tired enough. Staring at the folds of my bedroom curtains, watching the clock change its numbers from 3:37 to 3:38 — laying there exhausted.

I’d be up in the middle of the night, staring into my mirror telling myself that I should sleep – that I can sleep. Drinking tea, listening to soft music…and it didn’t help. I’d still find myself sprawled out on the bed – eyes wide awake, brain overrun with activity.

Then there were the nights where I fell asleep and I foolishly was excited, thinking I’d get a good nights rest. Only to wake up at 1 am. 2 am. 3 am. 4 am. Restless and unable to sleep became the motto of my nights.

These sleepless nights led to me being tired and useless during the day. Unable to focus, added stress and lack of productivity were direct results of my ‘no sleep’ lifestyle I was being forced into.

My friends were concerned at how exhausted I always seemed to be, and they would ask if I was sleeping. I was too embarrassed I admit the fact I could barely get three hours of sleep a night so I would brush it off saying that I had just had a rough week. It took a toll on me – mentally, physically and emotionally.

I’m using past tense because of the fact that I actually sleep now. After getting diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and taking steps to help my mental health, my problems sleeping started to disappear.

Now. This isn’t and won’t be the case for everyone. I totally get that. And if you’re a closet insomniac? Talk to your doctor. Sleep is worth it.

Everyone is going to have a different experience and I think it’s so super important to recognize this. What are some other problems you guys face with sleeping? What’s it like for you?

Cheers,
Brielle

Ne’er did I return.

Featured Image: “Sunsets from Lighthouses”, by Tuneer Chakrabarti.

There’s a beach somewhere, along some quaint coastline, bustling with people that I’ve been to more than a dozen times, and in all that makes sense, I’ve never felt quite felt like myself when I’ve understood that returning is inevitable.

The seas of change hold their own stories, and they rightfully hold many of mine too. I remember a time, beyond any time that strikes me when the days had swept into nights and the nights had given way to a life that stayed untouched of the rough sandpaper hands of decay. It was before I had a concept of a concept, a fleeting dream now, nothing more.

I remember bleeding profusely from my left hand when a little confused dog had left it’s impression on my nine year old self; quite an experience to have, that too on his birthday. I don’t remember the rabies shots, neither do I remember the kind faces that had once looked at me, in my situation. But it’s the only splashes of recollection that time has been generous with.

I remember heartbreak. A late January night when the entire paradigm of my existence was turned upon it’s very head. A reality check. An understanding of the implications of my actions. Rather, an end. Or the rightful accolade to the beginning of the end. I remember the kind faces that had once looked at me. But I do not want to.

I remember asphyxia. I remember hell. The worst, just yet to come. I remember my mistakes, I remember myself, curled up in a ball. Weeping. I remember times that I’d rather forget and call a nightmare instead.

There’s a beach somewhere, along some quaint coastline, where the only thing I remember is the wind on my face and the sand beneath my feet.

Regards,
Neil

Impotence of the Deity.

Featured Image: Twitter. Artist untraceable.

I do not talk about religion much. Better yet, I’ve not felt the unfettered need to. You could say that I’m not religious as far as convention would beckon. But then again, my bio says I’m a deist. Not an atheist, a deist.

So, what is a deist?

Fair question.

I mean, you don’t find us on the streets proclaiming an end of an era. Neither do we appear on your door asking you to take a monthly subscription to our lord and savior. In a sense, we pay very little mind to our version of the “deity”, but more on that later.

Wikipedia isn’t your first choice, if you’re going to search Deism up, trust me on that. Though thorough, Aristotle didn’t leave much leeway to the common man in his whole “first cause” and all the potentiality and actuality, hylomorphism and meta-physics and whatnot. That’s all well and good. But I’d rather believe in god than in jargon. Pun intended.

Deists have this entire neo-classical vibe sort of mood going on. A rejection of organized religion, a disillusionment of a “cold” deity and weariness of the same old gods and their own mental health issues that gets sidelined in the image of the halo.

Do Deists believe in god?

Well, yes and no. We don’t “believe” in god, but we have a vague lingering suspicion that some sentient being might be peeking through the event horizon just for the lulz. More seriously though, we just tend to not put much effort on homing into the dude. We’re chill, the dude (if he exists) he’s chill. Pretty much that.

An impotent deity. Are we sure exactly how that works? No. We’re not. And as far as Deism goes neither us nor the deity really intervenes much into the realm of the other.

Wait. So, as you people don’t believe that “god” exists and think he does not interfere, does “god” too think that you people do not exist and thus does not interfere in your business? Like, is this a conspiracy theory? Am I getting demonitized and branded a heretic?

Shut. Up. Get some sleep.

With Regards,
Neil

The Noir-esque Entendre

Featured Image: Pinterest. Photographer untraceable.

It still eludes me in quite a magnanimous manner, as to why Film Noir still holds such an essential part of my life, even though at one point in time, I’ve quite unsuccesfully tried to draw parallels to my depression and Noir. But, it’s something that I’ve repeatedly gone back to every time I’ve been terribly craving that same familar empty hollow fix of feeling something. Anything.

“Wherever I go, the wind follows. And the wind… smells like rain.”
– Peter Parker. (Earth – 90214)

Then, there’s this entire ‘hard-boiled’ aspect that comes into play. An entire almost pensive deatchment from the entirity of color, with nothing but tunnel vision towards the one, singular, particular goal. Noir does not take into account for feelings. Noir is brutal, and it’s what makes the entire concept so attractive. The World of Noir, is stylized in such a manner which spills into the mundane but still lies reserved much like the accentuation it keeps to itself.

Is Noir essentially gradual self-destruction then?
Good Question. Any answer’s as good as mine, but at an essential level of Noir the aspect of it’s existence questions the age old question of the binary notion of good and evil. And challenges it. It’s quite the prude to ask questions, that’s assured in maybe a light-hearted vein. Noir emphasizes the aspect of actions resonating lowder than words. It’s poigntantly pointing out all that does not come out in basic hepta-consistent white light, but only in a monochromatic, maybe.

Back to binging Noir then,
Monochromatic Salutations,
Neil

Was it me, Dio?

Featured Image: Still Image from “Phantom Blood”, by Hirohiko Araki. Color Distortion by yours truly.

{Copyright Disclaimer: Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.}

[Research Header]

A Sociological dissection into Dio Brando through Phenomenological and Historiographical lenses as the most normative representation of the Human Condition as potrayed in “Phantom Blood” by Hirohiko Araki.

[Abstract]

This paper, in itself, yearns to achieve an all-ensconsing level of comfort in consideration to a normatively antagonistic personage in an extensively academically uncharted field of human knowledge in respect to the masterfully crafted experience, that is, JoJo. But rather than a literature review, this paper seeks to draw a parallel with the aforementioned text inkeeping with the conditioning, intentions and involvement of the man percieved as the main antagonist as a paradigm of the human condition and the powerlessness of any individual to their surrounding lifeworld. (Mills, C.W. 1959, 2000)

[Key-terms]

–> Human Condition
–> Normative Antagonization
–> Interaction with Lifeworld
–> Pattern Creation

[Rationale]

Being forthcoming with Societal Perception on an action and it’s implied binary construct of good and bad, this research seeks to undermine the human tendency to take reasoned sporadic deductional capabilities in response to self-correcting feed-forward mechanisms as in the case of media, and reverses the same to find out the conclusion to the nature of human objectivity in response to justification and gas-lighting tactics. The broader scope of this research checks the counter-question to apparently slow reasoned human analytical prowess, and how to approach the same to form conclusions on the apparent justification of the human ability to form conclusions as a group and if that can be manipulated or weaponized.

[All rights of “JoJo”, “Phantom Blood”, “Dio Brando” and related inferences belong to Author: Hirohiko Araki and © Publishers: Shueisha, Capcom, B.N Entertainment.]

[Citations]

1) Mills, C.W. “The Sociological Imagination“. 1956. Pp. 3. United States of America. Oxford University Press. [http://download.library1.org/main/2246000/6c6d58bc9465036aaed98a0c16257d25/C.%20Wright%20Mills-The%20Sociological%20Imagination-Oxford%20University%20Press%2C%20USA%20%282000%29.epub]

Kobayashi Maru – 「小林丸」

Featured Image: Picture and Artwork; “Colour on Notations”, by someone who prefers to be anonymous.

To whomsoever it may concern,

The “Kobayashi Maru” is an analogy for an unwinnable situation, agreeably a pop-culture reference that might be in some aspects not eligible for a slightly gritty work of any calibre. In context, I’ve found the philosophy of the same very paradoxical. Almost an allegory for an impossible task, that was surely taken down once, by someone. An answer to a problem that is itself. Quite a conundrum indeed.

Alternatively, this entire post might very well be a love letter. As far as human nature goes, these never seem to go out of fashion. Then again, there’s a few glaring problems with such a letter. I neither know if I’ll ever send this, or even better, how to write a love letter for starters. If at all. But I’d like to entrust that to faith maybe. Maybe this entire thing is somewhat selfish, but while I do not think I’m in love with you, I would like to remember that the first time I did fall for you would be in French class, without a doubt.

Eyes often keep their mark on people. Big, expressive eyes; as Vantablack as they come; when the sunlight hit just right a speck in your right iris shone a tinge of brown. And there was a jaded hardbound in your hand showing its years like a badge of honor through it’s barely yellow pages. And in my folly, I introduced myself to you, and you smiled and I hope I smiled back. But, I’m not in love with you. I couldn’t be even if I knew what love would mean.

I’m just a boy, sitting with his Macbook, writing an discarded letter, asking her to love him. Notwithstanding, the blatant plagarism of one of the greatest romantic movies that I’ve never got around to watching, I’m here without a hint of an idea how this world works as I recall secondhand smoke from the burning end of a cigarette, a Dunhill, if I may so remember correctly, as we stood leaning on the arches to the entry to Starbucks while the ochre-tinged clouds adorned the skies outside.

To tell the truth, I’ve seen you drunk. I’ve seen you absolutely broken talking about what you’ve been through. Consequently, I’ve traded you similar stories with awkward anecdotes over Macha Frappes. I’ve seen you trying to pretend to read a french book because you found the cover attractive. As far as I’m concerned, you stuck quite an imposing figure.

I’m quite aware of the implications of this letter. I’m quite aware of who reads my work. I understand that this is foolish at best. But I’m just going to tell them that it’s a hypothetical work for my unseemingly little hobby of blogging. And as far as I’m concerned that is pretty much all that sells for truth at any reputable hardware store. And as the show goes on, you don’t exist.

With love.
Neil

 

Gucci Gang: A Utilitarian Basis.

Featured Image: “Little Pump” , Photographer untraceable. Source: Internet

{Copyright Disclaimer: Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.}

In the ever-evolving definition of art under the sun, we can come into a rational conclusion that art cannot be constant and has to keep changing from what is the norm to truly qualify as art. Similarly, in context of rap, it can often be hypothesis that creative freedom and a uprising counter-culture gave rise to one of the most pertinent work of art to cement for itself a permanent position in the history of human knowledge. In this blog post, we take a tour into the Magnum Opus of Gazzy Garcia, better known by his stage name, “Lil’ Pump”.

“Gucci Gang, ooh, yeah, Lil Pump, yeah, Gucci Gang, ooh”

The first notable point to the largely unconventional rap, would be the precise intrication of the words “Gucci Gang”, which largely plays upon the Human propensity of repetition, which is often a commercial strategy used in context to the Human condition and it’s proximity to Utilitarian literature, and it’s subsequent play on humans as individuals. The use of “Lil’ Pump” as his alias early in the track also may refer to the Alpha mentality to establish dominance early on. [1]

“Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang
Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)”

Furthermore, we see the phenomenological feed forward into the intricate life-world aspect of repitition, that establishes the pominence of the titular lyrics of the song. It would also be prudent to explore the connotations of the words early on, where it is observable that Gucci would refer to a bourgeoisie Italian Leather and fashion wear brand that is not easily attainable by the common people of any nation, thus alleviating the common fact that Gazzy Garcia would like to refer to himself as a thrift spender on goods beyond the reach of the common man; also the subtly grounded fact that his “gang” or congregation would also be made with similar kinds of people, with a similar economic status.

“My bitch love do cocaine, ooh I fuck a bitch, I forgot her name
I can’t buy a bitch no wedding ring, Rather go and buy Balmains”.

In chapter 5 of Utilitarianism, John Stuart Mill argued that the principle of utility “is a mere form of words without rational signification, unless one person’s happiness, supposed equal in degree […], is counted for exactly as much as another’s“. [2] In keeping with the spirit of the same, we see in the aforementioned lines that Gazzy Garcia, breaks social stereotypes and pushes sensitization in such a manner where he proclaims that his significant other would partake in recreational usage of a class A, CNS stimilant drug, where in order to appeal towards equality and for the sake of better nomenclature, Gazzy Garcia would rather not remember the names of his significant others, owing to the non-recurring and vast number of the same.

In continuum to the same, the ultra-modern take of Garcia would not subscribe into the common provocateur sense of monogamy and the confines of co-habitation in order to bolster his creative side, and also appeals to the concept of reciprocity, where he questions the age old question of a material enabler to the now outdated institution of marriage. Again, we see the distinction of Garcia with other artists where he would rather buy aparrel from “Balmains”, a French Luxury brand this time, to again reiterate his own distinction from other people.

“Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)
Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang
Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)
Spend ten racks on a new chain, My bitch love do cocaine, ooh
I fuck a bitch, I forgot her name, yeah, I can’t buy no bitch no wedding ring
Rather go and buy Balmains, aye. Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang”

Repitition is prime, there is no question about it. Refer to first set of the same for a detailed inquiry into the same device used by Garcia. The only addition to the same set, would be another defining characteristic of Garcia, where he is seen being able to spend 10 “racks” of money to by a new chain. A “rack” as defined can mean thousand dollars of cash within a rubber band. “Rack” & “Stack” are commonly confused in urban slang. [3]

“My lean cost more than your rent, ooh, Your mama still live in a tent, yeah
Still slanging dope in the jets, huh, Me and my grandma take meds, ooh
None of this shit be new to me, Fucking my teacher, call it tutory”

The succeeding verses contain a clue to explaining Bentham’s crucial assumption on the equality of capacities. There is more than scepticism or pragmatism in it. In the manuscripts on the felicific calculus of the early 1780s partially published by Halévy, [4] then integrally transcribed by David Baumgardt,[5] and later in the chapter on “Circumstances influencing sensibility” of “An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation”,[6] Bentham underscores how different contexts affect the way in which individuals react to pleasures and pains of different kinds. In effect to the same, we can also observe an Odeipus complex[7] at the crux of the verse, where Garcia refers to his mother being able to live in luxury while he again pushes beyond social ramifications of a teacher-student relationship, breaking barriers of love to persue post-modern basis of a relationship blossoming into something more. Similarly, he also hints at cohesion towards his grand mother, where a sort of assumed symbiotic level of bonding can be observed where Garcia encouraged his grandmother to keep her medication routine.

“Bought some red bottoms, cost hella Gs, Fuck your airline, fuck your company
Bitch, your breath smell like some cigarettes, I’d rather fuck a bitch from the projects
They kicked me out the plane off a Percocet, Now Lil Pump fly a private jet
Everybody screaming “fuck West Jet!”, Lil Pump still sell that meth
Hunnid on my wrist sippin on Tech, Fuck a lil bitch, make her pussy wet.

This might sound as a declaration of faith in ordinal utility, except that Bentham always insisted on the feasibility of hedonistic arithmetic. But a limitation did he introduce, and this was not dissimilar from what Mill would later affirm in “On Liberty”:[8] it was an “absurdity”, claimed Bentham, “‘[…] in a case in which the agent himself were the only person whose well-being were in question, [… to] prescribe exactly the same line of conduct to be observed by every man”.[9] The felicific calculus should only be applied to “extra-regarding” matters, where it was necessary to solve essential social problems. Here we see the unfazed attitude of Garcia, unbeknownst to his patrons, he was a pioneer is drug normalization who was departed from an airplane, thuse he could now dynamically question the social structures that bound him, and arrange for a means of transport more personal to him. We can also observe another reference to his post-modern mentality where he alludes to the classic conundrum free love once more.

“(Spend ten racks on a new chain, My bitch love do cocaine, ooh
I fuck a bitch, I forgot her name, I can’t buy no bitch no wedding ring
Rather go and buy Balmains, aye, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang) [x2]
Lil Pump, yeah, Lil Pump, ooh”
Other than a generous amount of repetiton, we can also observe the abstract expressionism in reference to the same, while the lyrics almost come full circle, i.e. akin to a Cartesian Cycle and complete the intricate web of lyrics Garica had woven.

All rights of Gucci Gang belong to [Brenden Murray / Gazzy Garcia / Gerrell Garcia Nealy, Gucci Gang lyrics © The Administration MP Inc].

References.

[1] de Waal. Frans ; “Chimpanzee Politics: Power and Sex Among Apes”; 1982;
ISBN 0801863368 (ISBN13: 9780801863363);  Johns Hopkins University Press

[2] Mill. John Stuart; “Utilitarianism”; 1863; Fraser’s magazine.

[3]  joeyjawbreakers@aol.com; Urban Dictionary; 2017; 2nd February.

[4]  Halévy [1901-1903] 1995, I, p. 300-8.

[5] Baumgardt, David; 1952, p. 554-66. The manuscripts transcribed by Halévy and Baumgardt are in University College, London, Bentham Papers (hereinafter U.C.) XXVII, pp. 29-40. Douglas Long (1995) has demonstrated that they belong to an early unpublished work on ‘Critical Jurisprudence’ composed before IPML.

[6] Bentham 1789a, pp. 51-2.

[7] Freud. Sigmund; “Interpretation of Dreams”; 1899

[8] Mill, On Liberty (1859).

[9] Ibid., p. 131.

 

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