Adults and Semantics

Game Of Thrones

“We were told there was a witness, a girl.”

“A niece. Of yours, I believe”

Peter Baelish -tensely- lets loose the fact: “A girl of no learning and scattered wits, I assure you.”

The Lords Declarant firmly decline in all but name. “We would like to speak with her”

PB: “Let me go fetch her”

The Lady Declarant : “No need. We prefer to hear her story unadulterated

The emphasis -and the ramifications – on the word ‘adult’ in adulterated.

I’m amused, at the striking semantics of the word. Adults.

Adults adulterate innocence.

As if they overlook/dislike (and in my case are ashamed) of the fact that they ever were  innocent..

I already know that Peter Baelish has already coached her in his dark arts of subterfuge. Earlier. By reading the books. He’s told Sansa to lie about how he murdered her delusive aunt as she gives her account to The Lords Declarant, as well as continue pretending to be his niece, with her hair dyed brown.

The TV show still has a surprise for me. Sansa reveals her identity as Sansa Stark, the only remaining Stark, and makes the murder of her aunt Lysa sound like a suicide. (Whereas the book has her keeping her identity secret, and falsely confessing the murder to be committed by a much-hated court minstrel of Lady Lysa)

There is no one better than Baelish at using a political situation to his advantage. the whole first season, has his webs of deceit wrapped around it, as confusing as the ergonomics of iron throne, and by the second episode, the tone is set for the season.

Nothing is more emphasised than the battle of information between Varys and Baelish in the throne room.
More than sex, gore and magic this is what has got everyone on the got banwagon, I feel.
It became a show of glorified subterfuge.
But enough of GOT.


The innocence of childhood is subverted by the realism of adulthood. Lies are in fact, a powerful ally to a 13 year old girl-noble like Sansa.  She can win at the expense of the adults who made life moredarker than dresses, boys, dances and laces.

Break for Semantic Satiation

I suddenly get an epiphany: because I find it hard to find sophisticated-sounding synonyms in the moment, I could just use the word “more” before the commonly-used word and fuse it to form a bigger, sophisticated word.

I mean, reading all these Olde English epics has shown me how semantics work: Lazily, like this only:
Bromsson. Brom’s son. Sounded Nordic didn’t it.

Oldtown, Winterfell, Sunspear. Riverrun. And modern references: Johnson. Churchhill. Harrisson. Newcastle, Liverpool, I’m looking for a common noun but I’m blank.

Moredarker, moreamorous, moreugly. lessominous, lessangry, lessemphatic. Metaphysical. Metahumourous. Etcetera.

Obviously it seems puerile to you’ll now, but a hundred years from now when someone is, er, reading my avante-garde blog, they’ll see these words peppered around the sophisticated roast duck that is my life’s work, and say “Mmmmm, vintage with a hint of moreawesomeness.”
Don’t smirk. It’s half true.

Sansa of Game Of Thrones

She, Sansa, is a stupid character, in the way moregritty boys would look at her, now. She is reared on the fact that her beauty can take her places. Her mother being the chief instigator.

Her mother disliked the austere tendencies of her husband and the old, cold, hard land they lived in. She, the mother, wanted her daughter to live in moresummery places with a lessaustere husband.
So in that (precocious) way, Sansa is stupid. (Mostly, To her moregritty sister who can pass of as a boy)
This explanation I feel I have to reserve for some of my friends who call her ‘stupid’ but don’t know how to construct the whys and hows of the ‘stupidity’.

Break for Semantic Satiation

Look at moregritty.
Now look again.
Pronounced Mo-ray-gritty.
It’s different now, innit?
Fast forward a hundred years after mo-ray-gritty:

It’s now
Morgity. (Pronounced mor-jity)

A hundred years more:


It’s the year 2214.

Morgitical younglings run around a bleak playground; its worn-out concrete plexicushion holding puddles of yellowy water. A female youngling overturns a piece of rubble, and finds a smorgasbord of critters hidden under the broken layers of plexicushion.
She does the natural thing and puts a millipede in her mouth. The excited insect runs down her chin and she giggles as it tickles her neck. Just like you’d expect a child to do,one who has never experienced the seductive dangers of the great outdoors.
An incandescent, spherical bot that was hovering near the playgroup, opens its maw and a snout with vacuum-suction sucks the millepede into it, from her neck.
It doesn’t affect her clothing.
It then clears out the pit off the other crawlies.
A male youngling, gutted, takes a chunk of  plexicushion and flings it at the bot.
It doesn’t dent.
He then charges at the aware, unassuming bot and jumps -feet first- into it.

The bot -torn between saving itself and protecting the boy- takes the hit and bangs into something that passes of as a branch of a tree.

The children laugh like a pack of hyenas.

A light on the bot reddens, and it lets out a simulated roar. It shoots out a line of liquid, circling the children. A laser beams out of another snout and incinerates the wetness on ground.

A circle of fire.

It shoots out a flare high into the air, to beckon the parents.

The children, sit inside the fire-circle, knees to their chests, sullen now.

Which brings us back to adulterating.

(If you’re quick you’ll realize the bots in the story were sanctioned by the adult parents of the younglings and while you may agree that certain centipedes are not to be put into your mouth, a post-apocalyptic world needs a bit of cheerful play. At most, the girl wont like its bodily juices and spit it out.)

Arya Stark of Game Of Thrones

I am Arya Stark. I lose my parents when I’m 6.

The adults I come across after that are Syrio Forel a water-dancer, Yronwood, a Nightswatch and former criminal, the Hound a serial murderer and rapist, and a dangerous, smiling acolyte of the God Of Many Faces, a cult that wants you to forget who you ever were before..

The only regular adulteration I ever received was my governess teaching me table manners and stitching. And my mother scolding me for playing in the dirt, with sword and bow.

Had my father’s head not been cut off, I, as a lady of a ruling house, would be expected to marry into another wealthy, ruling house to strengthen ties, wear sophisticated stuff, provide my husband with heirs, and basically remain prisoner to this alliance.

But now here I am, killing the men who killed my loved ones and travelling the known world, learning darker arts from darker adults. I become stronger, and the light within me I guard fiercely, because I know it will take just a prick for it to all drain out.

I walk alone. I am a cat. I am a ghost. I am a girl. I am a boy. I am an assassin. I am lost. I am a small sheep in wolf’s clothing. I am a small wolf in sheep’s clothing. I am confused about my faces. I am confused about my masks.

I walk alone, unadulterated.

Tyrion Of House Lannister

I laugh uncontrollably at the thought of my father adulterating my being. Adulteration would be an understatement.


Buried words

When there are words,
That don’t give you pleasure when you say them,
Should you say them?

When these words still make people laugh,
Or make them perk their eyes up,
in attention,
to see your face when you say them,
Should you say them?

Or should you say those other words underlying,
the words that burn your insides so
So caustic, as they lie untold
I think you should let them go.

Let them spurt out of your mouth,
even if it means ridicule,
even if you feel mad,
even if those faces are scrunched up in
confusion, incredulity, anger and mirthless laughter

Let these torrents download onto their consciousnesses,
So that they learn that you will never say
words that take the easy way

That World Cup

It’s July 15, 2014.
I usually don’t date my posts, since they date themselves but it’s important to state that this was the day and time: approximately 35 hours after Die Mannschaft’s world cup triumph over Argentina’s at the Maracana in Rio de Janeiro.

So. It’s July 15, and I’m still recovering from the Brazilian team’s post-quarterfinal thrashings at the hands of the Europeans: the Germans and the Dutch.

But more importantly it is the confirmation of what my dad has been harping about for years: That the Brazilian flair of old has been lost inside the European system of playing.
And the Europeans are now masters of the beautiful game.(Wait, not ‘beautiful’, it should be the ‘technical’ in lieu to the point I’m making)

The Europeans have a monopoly over club football that’s overlooked. The money’s there for sure. The creme de la creme of South American football talent always nestle around the big European clubs to earn ridiculous salaries that they wouldn’t get in their national leagues.

When this became a frequent phenomenon is unknown, neither do I want to talk about how it gradually came about through various agents.

Brazil lost 7-1 to this great German side last week and it seems it was always on the cards since 2002, where I noticed alot of friends/acquaintances perpetuating the fact that the reigns of Brazil (or Argentina) were over and the Europeans: England, Germany, Italy, Spain and France were the new shit.

But it was never more defined than when I watched the Brazil-England round-of-16 match in the 2002 world cup in my school, in an unused classroom with the school football team.
We were invited by our rather jingoistic coach (jingoistic about football) to watch the match, maybe to ignite football-fuelled passions in us, maybe to teach us about the finer tactics about football. Whatever he said we didn’t pay much attention to, anyway.
But to the television screen.
And there was this moment where the notorious Brazilian defence gifted the ball to Michael Owen at the edge of their box. Owen coolly scored past the Brazilian keeper and more than half the class: of short-panted, cross-legged boys, raised their hands in jingoistic passion and cheered: rather, tried to bellow, like a bunch of school boys do when their voices have not yet cracked.

A yellow-tied boy, my senior by two years, clapped his friend on the back, mocking “I told you. Brazil suck.” prematurely.
I wanted to slap him but resisted the urge since he was a senior, and he seemed to know his stuff: the way 12 year old boys seem to know ‘stuff’ to clueless 10 year old boys. (I have a family tradition of cheering for Brazil, whether it is in our common Portuguese colonial roots: Pereira, I don’t know. I don’t know how it happened.)

Later I went out of the class, for the lunch break, missing the Brazilian equaliser at the end of the first half: Rivaldo scoring his 5th consecutive goal in the tournament.

(In retrospect, I had no idea of the tactical nature of the match: whether Brazil was controlling possession. Or England. Of who had the most shots on target, the most completed passes and all that jazz. Neither do I think that was even discussed on TV. Statistical science in sport was kinda just catching on.)

But the moment was in the second half.The moment that blotted out all the other memories I had of of the game. (which is why I’m so clueless about who was the tactically better team that day)

Ronaldinho’s freekick from 40 yards that went straight into the top corner.
I don’t think I even got back at the yellow-tied boy after that. Neither did I remember seeing his friend give him back for his premature ejaculation. I don’t think I remembered anything but that goal.

It was a moment of pure genius (and to the people who say it was a fluke, Seaman had a habit of staying off his line).
Ronaldinho’s prowess cannot even be questioned; he became footballer of the year, twice, I think a few years after that.

It is obvious, that only in the free-spirited Brazilian team would such an audacious feat be tried. It’s in their blood, to dazzle with their skills of the foot. It’s in their blood to not treat football as a job. And to try out the ridiculous.

Pity Mr. Scholari for not picking him as a creative midfielder in this World Cup.

Die Mannschaft lost that year to him in the finals 2-0.
Then again he had four Neymar-esque players in his team, in Ronaldo, Rivaldo, Ronaldinho and Denilson.

I’m willing to bet it was this edge of solo/sensational/illogical/magical play, that bought my dad and his brothers to rooting for Brazil at the World Cup.

Louis Litt O Louis Litt

Your forehead is so big,
Your mouth a pertinent impertinence.

The eyes dance up and down,
Too fast, for someone with graceful aplomb

I see you looking at your minions,
Lucifer When He Was An Angel,

Jealous, corruptible, incandescent

A baby within a behemoth, 

A behemoth rippling within a baby,

I smile because you are Gay.







Blithering idiot

You know when I first read that impressive quote by Phillip Dick on The Terrible Rule of the Universe I was like, that’s a really interesting use of the word ‘template’.
This was written in 1960s in his Exegesis (which is also the first time I read the word ‘exegesis’) and now I’m very fairly, perfectly certain that the word came into universal, popular as well as earthly use from his Exegesis. Like I’m very, fairly, perfectly certain that I’m the only person among these 7 billion people on earth that has realised/theorised this; that the word ‘template’ has been put into popular use by the madman and former sci-fi author Phillip K. Dick.

Yes, I know you’re saying “Yeah, right, I’m sure it’s something some old British walrus must have coined and not your dude” and I’m not arguing with that because I think that’s true and fair. I’m sure it is. Probably has some Latin roots, etc, etc.

But that’s not the point.

The point is which singular human being has been majorly/most responsible for the global usage of the word. And has used the word most powerfully/meaningfully. And if you’ve read about Phillip Dick and his exegesis you would conclude safely that the man’s last day’s of writing left a powerfu, meaningful, profound, and lunacy-tinged voice to his legacy.

He was trying to break down reality and other ontological things and put that under the literary umbrella of his Exegesis. It was his last stand to Death and his explanation of the Meaning Of Life. His life’s work of concocting alternate futures and timestreams into stories ended right up to this prolific, dogged, tragic, idiosyncratic, pedantic version of reality, that was made with a trollopian work ethic.. ( I say pedantic cos this experience of the universe shouldn’t be presumed to be the same for everybody) (Wait, I don’t even know if he was presuming that) (Ok, not pedantic) (I really have only read one short story of his, and only the first 20 pages of the Exegesis because it’s so absurd and cracked) (and yet profound)

This well-respected author whose stories were the inspiration for Blade Runner, Total Recall, Minority Report, Next, The Adjustment Bureau,  wrote “The beautiful and imperishable comes into existence due to the suffering of individual perishable creatures who themselves are not beautiful, and must be reshaped to form a template from which the beautiful is printed (forged, extracted, converted). This is the terrible law of the universe. This is the basic law; it is a fact… Absolute suffering leads to — is the means to — absolute beauty.”

Profound. Brutal. Beautiful. Terrible. Template-ious.

Just the quote you need (backed up by a gargantuan body of work that was longer than the bible) to inspire a world to use the word “template”.

The word template is defined as “a model or standard for making comparisons”.

The first time I heard the word ‘template’ was in a computer lab in the third standard (8 years old). I think it was in the Powerpoint lesson where the professor once spelt the word ‘capability’ on her new whiteboard as ‘kapakility’ with her new olfactory-stimulating marker pen, while dictating a chapter to be written in our notebooks. This brilliant spelling may have been the inspiration of my subsequent obsessions with English semantics, as I remember being slightly let down when my mother said ‘what is this supposed to mean?’ and changed it to “capability”. Kapakility is undoubtedly a stronger word, and utterly kraken-esque (for want of a better k word off the top of my head) and I’d rather use words with the mystery and power of my Computer Applications professor than the right way.

The man Bill Gates comes to mind among the ”most influential people in the world”. And now I’m inclined to talk about ”most influential person likely to have furthered the popularity of the word ‘template’ from Mr. Phillip K. Dick and whoever came after Mr.Phillip K Dick.”

A certain person like this mild, diminutive man most famous for popularising his own operating system and brand of computer interface is not likely to have used the word ‘template’ with the depth of Mr.Dick, but as a reader of Mr.Dick or a man who may have had friends who were readers of Mr.Dick, he is admittedly the second most influential party to the popularising of the word ‘template’ even if he wasn’t responsible for designing the Powerpoint template that made “template” a household/corporate word.

Let’s say the guy who put the word ‘template’ in Powerpoint is the third most influential person to this cause.

You gotta be fair to that unknown soldier, I mean, programmer.

I’m surprised at these words that keep popping up; influential, global, popular, powerful, profound, template.

Semantics are the crux of this blithering post.

I mean, you have to be a blithering idiot to not recognize that you have to be influential on a global scale to have to make a powerful, profound, universal template. There are a million people who talk about Phillip K. Dick in forums about reality, psychological effects of reality, Blade Runner etc. He’s right now on the cusp (or in the middle) of that posthumous global popularity.(Or at the end, I don’t care)

But the influence that he wrung in blah-blah-ist America in 1960-something or 1970-something by writing about seeing geometric phantasms and red holy spirits just before he made that quote of the Terrible Law of The Universe did a lot for the word “template”

And, yet, I’m fairly certain y’all blithering idiots will disagree.


Hungry, I checked the fridge for a Nutella bottle. I looked at the watch, it was 12:29 am.
I suddenly heard a voice say “I am Sam.”
And I then looked up, and then behind.
I saw a man that looked like a Sam. He was huge, more than six feet three, dark, clean-shaven and had a kind, sweet face.

But he was undoubtedly tough, this man. He had reared himself to be tough – obviously – by his look and by his build; so whatever his face said, I knew he wanted to be tough and angry somewhere inside his intangible soul.

A Sam is a big, kind creature much like a Chewbacca except that its much smarter in the head (at least in the speech center of the brain) and better with the hands. ( more bonobo-like than gorilla-like, I won’t say ‘chimpanzee-like’ because bonobos are even more dextrous than chimpanzees and I’m certain he was more dextrous than a bonobo)

This Sam then proposed I put back the nutella in the fridge or I would be thrown over the kitchen counter and my head then would be used to smash the metal kitchen sink to pieces;

Because the kitchen was being extremely naughty by tempting me to break my regular diet.

I —I was skinny. I didn’t know I needed a diet. Maybe I did. But nutella would only help. Why commit this travesty on my poor, poor head.

But he insisited it was the kitchen’s fault and that the kitchen had crossed a line; and since the primary element of the kitchen was its sink and counter-top, he would emphasise the importance of those values to the kitchen by injuring these elements.

I agreed to the smashing, telling him that he had to ensure that no drop of blood would spill out from my head while he disciplined the kitchen.

He promised, and since he was a magical being, he smashed my head on the kitchen tap, sink, and counter-top without injury to me.

The feeling was amazing. It was like being stoned, except that I didn’t cry inside – in pain – this time.

It was like a life without pain.

It was like something your parents only told you about; when they talked about their parents disciplining them.

The feeling got over quite quickly. The Sam had mellowed down, and the sweat on his face was visible. It had obviously taken a big effort for him to be tough and angry; even for a few seconds.

I opened up the nutella and the Sam smiled, saying he wanted to try the nutella since the nutella was something he never got in Magical Sam Land. I refused, saying, How could I know if he had a diet going on in Magical Land, and since I couldn’t know; I couldn’t spoil him.

He tired at this accusation, and told me that when I was 5, I was so ashamed of a chocolate melting in my pocket in a car near Juhu Centaur Hotel, that I didn’t tell the couple in the car that the chocolate that they’d given me had laid forgotten in the pocket for an hour, and was now like poo.

It was true.

I retorted how is that connected to this, and even if it was true how can I give away my precious hoard of chocolate (especially since I have a childhood tendency to not want to waste chocolate, so big, that I was ashamed when one melted inside my pocket.)

He gave me an all-knowing, fatherly smile and said “Coochie Coochie Coo” and he tickled me with his big, hirstute index finger; in my ribs.

I recoiled, aghast that it was some form of sexual molestation, but then I realised he was a Magical Sam and Magical Sam’s don’t have any form of sex, so it was probably a way of cajoling.

I was cajoled.

I gave him the nutella bottle, and he put the spoon of nutella to his mouth, and mmmm-ed, before he blew up.
He blew up in a sparkly, confetti-like burst. And the bottle fell to the kitchen-counter, full and unspoiled. I picked it up and threw it angrily at the bird in the window. The bird in the window flew away to another window, much like a painting in Hogwarts where the people in the paintings move to other paintings. The window cracked open, and sunlight flew in.

I began sleeping as soon as the rays hit my eyes. In my dreams, I knew that Sam hadn’t died and had only gone back to his sparkly utopia. I also put together the fact that the uncle who had given me the chocolate that had melted into pocket poo, in that car, many years ago was called Sam.

The nutella began dripping off onto the moldy chajja below.

The evening after Papa’s funeral

Yellow orbs of light. Hammocks. Sand. Breeze. Twilight.  Faint lively bustle of conversations in the distance.  Black silhouettes of palm trees like watchers in the breeze. And the faint crashing of the waves on the beach.

He’s walking down a sand-covered stoneway. To the rubble-coursed wall with a wicker gate. The wicker gate that opened to a stone stair that fell to the beach below.

He can see his brother in the distance, at the gateway looking into the horizon, lost in thought; His long hair obscuring his small face.

His legs carry him to his brother.

His brother turns his head back towards him and walks towards him, as if he didn’t want to be seen alone with his thoughts.

But that’s what he wants to think; that his brother is the one who doesn’t want to be seen alone with his thoughts.

He’s really the one who doesn’t want to be seen alone with his thoughts.

That’s always been his greatest fear; a life of being alone with his thoughts and people judging him for it.

His brother mumbles “Lets play table tennis.”

He mumbles back “I’ll get Daniel.”

The memories of the past efferevesce within him. Mixing themselves with the desires of the present.

Stoically, they both trudge away knowing they’re never really going to attempt to play table tennis.

The sea meanwhile washes away the deathly still; into the eroded rocks on the lonely beach.

The yellow orbs burn brighter; as if in answer to the gathering darkness.

The trees seem homely now. Ancient and beautiful.

A cacophony of bawdy laughter wafts down from the dining cottage.

They reach it.

“Lebironam” The gibberish of his mind says.

He smiles.

It could mean anything; but he knows what it means to him.

And he keeps on smiling.