"I am not the born" - Guru Nanak

I was born in a country emancipated from slavery to the British, thirty-five years before my birth; the country's concept of identity was already being questioned.  I was birthed to a young woman, the age of eighteen.  She was the daughter of an old film actress, popular in the 1940's and perhaps 50's—for our family, she will be popular for generations.  My grandmother had a big hand in raising me while my mother went to college in her mid-twenties—herself coming first in academics throughout the Indian state of Maharashtra; a divorcé and a single mother in metro India during the 1980’s.

          When I was born there was a celebration for me, and one hundred beggars were fed on the streets of Bombay—as today’s ‘Mumbai’ was called then. The hallway of the hospital was uproarious with my father and his friends drinking and celebrating while the hospital room was quiet with my mother and grandmother—the old actress—passed out in exhaustion.

            My father himself was the bastard child of one of the most classical Indian film actors of the same era, with a considerably longer career, and his mistress, who was similarly an actress.  I have never viewed her work, and am nearly wholly at a loss for any longevity of memories as concerned with my father’s mother.  There are a few memories from my very young years, and then smatterings of years after when I would go off with my father for a few anxious days for my mother; but aside from this, my paternal grandmother represents more of a figure that was present in the house where the wallpaper on one large wall looked like a forest, and my first dog, Butchy, lived and died and let me ride his back to get over my fear of dogs.  

            I was raised on stories like this that helped engender my way of thinking, and that kind of thinking ignited as I grew through my teenage years in America.  All the desire for identity, seen predominantly through material success—as would be expected from a recently emancipated colony—was brought to fruition in a land born of the previous oppressor’s brothers; a land where this mentality created an entire system of living, called Capitalism.

            There is a long story in between, so for brevity: today I work as a salesman, learning the art of politics and communication; honing my skills of living, and setting my eyes on ever more dramatic goals matched with actionable, and measurable attempts at their fulfillment.  All the churning molten history of my life in the cooker of modern day America combines with my circumstance (what I like to call, Blessing) and rumbles with tension as my Being begins breaking through the soil of the old world, and the soot of the new; ushering in the fire of both, and with it, the coming Age of Boldness. 

Climax

It pours forth so easily on here.
My mom said she read this sometime; once when I was younger, she found my journal--this is certainly a bit different, yet still so much the same--I love it.

It, is the way life teaches you to live it; it's fantastic--it can be debilitating at times, and literally in cases of trauma and the like.  The reality of that dynamic however, is what stokes my fire.

My passion is compressed--and it's focused.  It's like a laser.  I can't explain to you how fast I can intelligently go through books now--I can do the majority of three a night if I am really in the zone.  I am able to be hyperactive--it's what happens to kids like I was.  (i burst out laughing writing that ps).

I can generate written assignments with, "Utterly fascinating ideas," as my english teacher put it in record format--my grammar usage has work left, but my general structure (when it is pre-structured and reviewed and refined) is solid.  Here, on this blog, I just come and climax; it's probably once reason I enjoy it so much.

I'm buried right now.
buried.
its amazing.  My shoulders stand differently, and I have to be conscious of them, that's how much weight it feels like.

Can you imagine if I had a eleven year old boy and was in a new country? I can never ever do enough because I saw one woman do so much--it's the secret behind all my strength I think.  Well not all of it, but that was the foundation of it, it prefigured everything else and continues to do so actively; it's just great that now my own voice is beginning to emerge as well.

The reality of the dynamic, it teaches you to do it actively.  We could talk about life for, I suppose, as long as we live.

Have a great evening.
I miss my best friend sometimes, "Your love is a mountainside" plays on my headphones on repeat (David Vertesi) really recommend it, I've been nuts about it for like a month and a half now...on repeat!

Here, i'll make it easy for you, first time I'm seeing the video too--seems like it could be better, but hey, he has one, his music is boss (the song at least) and his ducks are in enough of a row that he's easy to find even though his name is weird to spell...and he cast that spell through sound alone!



Non-violence and civic duty.
Strategy.

I feel like Harry Potter sometimes, and James Malarkey is my Professor Dumbledore. 

Why he rules though, is because he can make every student feel that way. 

I remember the first time I went to visit his office.  It was a windy saturday during the summer and I was wearing a light brownish, finely detailed plaid sports coat with a white shirt, jeans, some manner of shoe, and a skinny red tie.  I may sound ridiculous to you, I'm okay with that.  

Professor Malarkey had already read my entrance essay, and he was right, Humanities was built for my person.  I can't imagine myself without university training now.  There is a significant portion left to traverse, however the movement forward, the timing, the instructors, and the guidance along with financial help from my mom and my work have enabled the focusing of my passion I mentioned earlier,  the compression of coal, and the resulting egg. 

All this, with my noon-hour yet to blossom. 

At my death my friends, at my death. 

Back to work. 

A mirage of a carrot, and the reality of the stick.

"This book belongs to the most rare of men. Perhaps not one of them is yet alive. It is possible that they may be among those who understand my “Zarathustra”: how could I confound myself with those who are now sprouting ears?—First the day after tomorrow must come for me. Some men are born posthumously.

The conditions under which any one understands me, and necessarily understands me—I know them only too well. Even to endure my seriousness, my passion, he must carry intellectual integrity to the verge of hardness. He must be accustomed to living on mountain tops—and to looking upon the wretched gabble of politics and nationalism as beneath him. He must have become indifferent; he must never ask of the truth whether it brings profit to him or a fatality to him.... He must have an inclination, born of strength, for questions that no one has the courage for; the courage for the forbidden; predestination for the labyrinth.  The experience of seven solitudes. New ears for new music. New eyes for what is most distant. A new conscience for truths that have hitherto remained unheard. And the will to economize in the grand manner—to hold together his strength, his enthusiasm.... Reverence for self; love of self; absolute freedom of self....

Very well, then! of that sort only are my readers, my true readers, my readers foreordained: of what account are the rest?—The rest are merely humanity.—One must make one’s self superior to humanity, in power, in loftiness of soul,—in contempt."

- Friedrich W. Nietzsche.

How about that. 

Watch the birdie

Anita O'dey comes up as a reminder of the power of music. I was going through a depressive cycle, not without cause, and I spent my whole Christmas day with her.

I indulge my Madness, you know? Any philosophy must be lived, even if the philosophy consists of being purely thought, it must be adhered to stringently to earn its weight.  As such, Madness requires a continual experimentation in itself, and so as the songs came on--it was really crisp and a bitterly cold Christmas day--her songs were keeping me warm.  I felt isolated and alone, perhaps even lonely for a few moments now and then, and Anita kept me warm everywhere I went to deliver gifts.

She got old, I think she died now, but in the middle of the twentieth century, she carried the torch rested like a cross on those who must bear it, and luckily had help up the hill.

----

Then Emmylou came on, a song I recently discovered, and I'm transported forward in time; clearing the air and allowing me to see the strength in music which draws some near to it like moths and flames, or flies and honey--it's weight and heated nature is certain destruction for those indoctrinated in their generations rock and roll. Their cultures greatest hits.  

Music is a historical artifact; something that connects us--records, right? I can hear my first album eleven hears ago, and then the first master of the upcoming album, and it knocks you about.  I wonder sometimes if I forget the number of songs I've written because they help me process emotions and then I move along once there is nothing but husk left.  Or is it that singing them brings new juice into them? In some ways, my versions change as my style continues its steady march, myself a solider following orders instead of the general dictating direction.  

I am excited to play in WYSO with Juliet again, she is really fantastic and outside of her varied talents, it's an acute passion for the music which shines glowingly on the other strengths of her as a radio DJ, and interviewer, and an important--nearly crucial component--to the Dayton music scene.  I was so nervous last time, in a great way--one of the most fun things in my life and I would do it constantly if film wasn't my primary pull; this time I am certain to be nervous again--however this time I have the added comfort of just being really, really excited to share with Juliet and Shelly.  

The album has a new philosophy to it, it is approached posthumously with everything that was birthed from the conception of the songs.  I was in a very different place when I was writing the songs than when I was recording them; and I am in a far different place now as I work towards publishing them.  The artwork and the concept, the order of tracks, the tracks chosen to be on the record--the communication that was forced during its creation, the five hour drives to Nashville Sunday mornings, the ten hours of studio work, and the five hour drive back to Dayton the same Sunday night for work and homework the next day were some of the best lived moments in the Year of the Win (2011) and certainly were a big component in the activities for this year applying a lot of the lessons gleaned last year.  

The few critical ears I've been able to gain attention from all say the album has a marked difference in tone, with a little spillover for coherence; in general, the simplest description is, "It's happier," which I'm not sure I like or not, but that isn't really the point of this article, nor the point of happiness. 

I was working on the cover the other day, pulling and yanking at the assets we've created on photoshop; the team doesn't even really know one another; the product is a synthesis of relationships and histories, it's never ever one persons.  I am very excited about it, concerned that my lack of time will keep me from playing enough live, and no copies of this album will ever get distributed either.  It's not so much fame one desires, as much as reach; the point of all my work is a revision of the staunch rigidity that kills creativity if misused (and often is) through societal and self imposition.  I'm also chasing a song, and a sound, and this is the soundtrack to the adventure--and now, it's clear we're learning how to create some great moments.  

The laws of thermodynamics, and the causes for social entropy, a whirling dervish. There is little the majority of us cannot do with a bonding self-identity.  One commonality my various artistic practices desire to express, from my method of sketching to my content of songs and my outlook on film, is the commonality of uniqueness, and the desire for an authentic joy.  

Do you know that the whole point is outrageous? 

I'm going to bring water to every man, woman, and child on the planet, or at least be a part of that which will. That's Freshwater, the essence of all life, the most fundamental requirement for enrichment.  

There is a new icon on this record, much like the three stick figures if you got a physical copy of the last record (click here to hear) and it to hold esoterically significance to individuals my world has come into contact with. I even hid a heart in it, perhaps it's a hark back to my nineties sensibilities? Are we far enough out to appreciate the nineties yet? In another decade--near about 2014 we'll start seeing it in full force, with some trickles coming in 2013.  

At this point I'm just procrastinating my homework. 

See you soon, 

Karn 

There's a battle outside and it's ragin'

-B.Dylan

Mud, and thumbs.

Sometimes, I'm a prehistoric, banging away at the unknown knowledge in front of me. Wailing in my language, consumed with confusion that obscures even the acknowledgement of confusion--utterly lost.  I wrote a song about it, on an old album. Time as the charging train. Sun spots. 

I loooove getting esoteric when I'm like this. It feels like I'm talking--and I am--but no one knows what I'm saying, and it's a more active version of what happens a lot of the time.  This epicycle thing I got going is pretty great. Always heading into our noon hour.

I laugh when I'm misunderstood, and no one's feelings are really hurt; I see structures in my mind. Visualizations of conversations and claims, I am obsessed with structure, and so when I see one of mine that I keep banging up against, it's a humorous and humbling feeling. Still a monkey with a bone.  A more basal being, with an observant intellectual dancing along side.  What is mud baby, what is mud. 

Mud, and Thumbs. 

Aaaand we're back.

1 quarter down in The Year of the Great. The meat of the edits are completed. The people to review the book are scheduled out. Travel was replete. Lent has been a nice focus. Work has been a challenge, and also what forces a rise to the occasion. Being able to communicate on intimate levels has been upped, the body is stronger (though as I write this it's all out of whack from some intense travelling near the end). Q2 is starting with a bang, already going to help lead my team--no transitions, just a great train chugging ever forward. 

Saw the new India, built personal relationships, renewed visions, re-framed perspectives.  Indian night clubs and dead rats that looked leathery while walking about. Replete journal time, amazing books, a new look at the uniting of states that we live in.  This spinning globe. The album (Rosebush, & The Pursuit of Dreams) is near complete, artwork's final touches will coincide with the final touches on the mastering, The objectives have been found self-instructing; to take one's own advice, one must give oneself advice, and so one must ask oneself for advice.  To submit the eyes: this is a great one, it happens naturally with a focus to continually give over to seeing the other side of cynicism, to seeing beauty in all it's glory.  Actions as language: this flows directly from the first objective, it is the vehicle that the advice uses to manifest.  Quarter 2 has some less travel planned out, yet to some new places; it has a lot of work and new reaching.  As far as sheer numbers, I was about 7% short in Q1--so the pressure is on and popping, better now than later.  Opportunity over impediment. 

There are little aches, little cognitive set backs, some immature envy, rotting pride, etc. etc. but all these things are part of the dynamic.  Like being caught up in a wave, one which we have to have no fear to be in, and more realistically, one which we can wholly trust with our absolute best interests. 

This is life, and it's moving, and it can only be one word,