Hobbies, life, materialistic philosophy

When (a+b)^2 is not quite a^2+b^2+2ab

It has been sometime since the consistent underachiever Spain announced themselves as the true heir of the art called beautiful game. In the days gone by many updates have changed on Facebook, many tweets have been replicated , many tears shed and many decibel violated. In the midst of all these many millions have been made.

May be, we human beings are unlike any other animal or maybe in essence we are still beasts for we go to great lengths to be entertained . We pay magicians to belittle our intelligence, gladiators to kill, and Russell Peters to tell us that we are dick-heads. As times have changed, some forms of entertainment have been condemned to the dark alleys of secrecy under the garb of changing moral values while new forms have crept up to play with the same old neurons.What stays rooted in the midst of this tempest of change is our need to be entertained.

If our lifetimes is any yardstick, competitive sports as a form of entertainment is ancient so is the art form defined by people faking emotions and actions as envisioned by people we call writers. Another fact that binds these interracial twins is that the economics that sometimes shadows and beacons them have been great advances in media. I doubt if any person reading this post has not been to a movie or has not watched the live/deferred live telecast of ones favourite sport.

Having applied the base paint, it is now time for me to reflect on another of mans innovation. We like to classify things, rather we need to classify things. We like to create order in the midst of chaos. Perhaps this carnal need to classify things is what makes us classify movies into genres. We have action movies, romantic ones, fiction, horror and the likes and the unlikes.

This post of mine is largely inspired by the common thread that runs through all great sport movies. We love the underdogs to win against the odds Bhuvan, chak de, rocky or the mixed pro football team of the movie I consider the best sports picture “Remember the titans”. A further rumination on the matter leads me to realise that our fascination and adoration for the underdog violates the very foundation of the fourth wall. We rejoice when Bangladesh beat Australia, some unknown player wins the Wimbledon and what not. This is more true for sports where we are more than literally neutral.Usain Bolt stealing the thunder of Americans and making underdogs out of the Americans or a brawn GP winning F1 in its  first attempt do have its kicks.

Having meandered a lot in the course of this post,it is now time for me to economize on words . With the increase in eyeballs that follow soccer, it has become much more than a game for some poor goal keeper it can actually be a matter of life and death . I apologise to his departed soul for making him a common noun, and in keeping with  my vow to blog only from memory, I shall delve no deeper into the matter.  In this years finals Dutch were the obvious underdogs. Yet, somehow i would have hated if they had won for they did not play beautiful. In the finals, the conduct of the dutch can be best explained as a players who had an inception that football is nothing but playing kick boxing outside the ring. All over the world, the pundits and the laggards(me included) blasted the Dutch. But there lies the paradox that haunts me, it was probably the only shot at immortality the dutch guys had. They needed to do something to sweeten the sad memories of a nation twice rejected at the altar. They chose to embrace the wrath of zillions of people glued to their TV screens. They risked it all. They were playing a loose-loose game. If they won they would be vilified, if they lost, their defeat would be celebrated rather than consoled. At some points, I think they deserved to get the support any underdog gets and then I just fail to support them for any second, the only emotion I have for them is hatred.

It would be somewhat unjust for me to click on publish without a contradicting feeling I have been having. Maybe in some fictional finals of an awesome movie I would root for the same kind of football played by the dutch. Bringing in more money to the formula that binds all sports movies

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Hobbies, Literary experience, philosophical me

When one word speaks a thousand words

As a matter of lack of choice, or rather as a result of murder of choice, not a day passes by in my life when I don’t come across some arrangement of Roman alphabets that always makes sense to my literate mind.But there are some words that are forever condemned to have their existence intertwined with our distant or not so distant past.When I come across those words, a divine orchestra of words fill my day dreaming mind.

One such word that comes to my mind is “melancholy”. If I had ever done grave injustice that sprang to my mind. The first line of this para would definitely find its place as a stinking specimen.  For an inaudible whisper of the word “melancholy” flooded my mind with memories that I had to let it out in this blog. In my not so distant past, I had to study a subject called alternative English. In my school days, it was a subject that definitely compete in the race to be my favourite. You hardly got marks. There was no such thing as right answer or wrong answer. It all depended on how much your teacher liked your answer. But it sure had some of the finest specimens of English literature still not lost in the pages of history.

Wordsworth, I really hope I am not messing up with the name of the great nature poet for I have resolved not to look up the literary piece that forms an integral part of this post. This is done with a misplaced sense of self-righteousness that I can do justice to my memories only if my entire post is untainted with anything but my memories. “Misplaced sense of self righteousness”- rings any bell. In my mind, I hear an explosion of bell metal that numbs my sense of hearing. These words always teleports me to the seats of inox kolktata, and I see joker mouthing these words to batman. Dark knight is a part of my recent memory and weeds have not yet attacked this castle. So, I shall try to quickly pass through my neighbourhood and zoom to my past.

About Wordsworth , he had written a poem called solitary reaper. I really don’t recollect all the words of the poem but a few words have stood the test of time.This was the poem that told me of the existence of the word “lass”. I first heard someone using the word “melancholy notes”. I found myself wandering across the world trying to help Wordsworth decipher what the beautiful lass was trying to sing in a language that he did not understand but in a voice that touched his heart.But therein lies an allegory of my life, whenever I hear the word “melancholy”, a smile spreads on my lips, I race to my school days, and I fail to sympathize with anything and everything sad about the collection of words that needs the word melancholy to describe itself.

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