It has been a while since I have written anything on here. Mostly because I have been too busy with college, getting in accidents (pictures soon? maybe) and work. Also probably because I have not written or made anything worth posting. I might dig through my drives and pull out some of my older things and place them around here.
I know no one reads this and I am still not so open to the whole blogscene, but I'll keep on trying :)
Now that this update is up, let me think of ways to really update this page!
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Drive by Pulkeet Mehra
Just a random movie I made. I took speed burst shots in sports mode using Rajat's camera and compiled it with JPGVideo and Adobe Premiere Pro. This is taken in a limo on the way back to my house from Ronald Reagan National Airport in Arlington, VA. One of my first movies. Well not really but this is one of my worst. I realize the ending is really abrupt and the audio sputters and dies. I didn't feel like fixing this. Maybe later. Until then. Enjoy.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Untitled Ballad
A ballad I wrote for English class (it is untitled):
T'was midnight, the horse trodded on.
A Knight in shining armour,
he rode and rode on
into the chill, the fog of the moor.
Passing the village, the town
yet out of sight.
The Knight carried on, not a frown
showed through his might.
The castle opens it gentries.
Darkness floods into Light.
The town sleeps gently,
not a child stirring in sight.
He gallops to the tower,
felling any defenders that might
dare challenge his power.
A bell rings, warning, through the night.
The door to the tower highest
comes down with a crash.
Inside of it, the brightest
most beautiful princess, tending a gash.
The two lovers embrace,
warm blood on cold metal.
Enwrapped in love, she falls to grace.
To end his misery, he must settle.
Up into the heavens,
against the morning suns light.
so peaceful, beautiful,
finally free. Two doves take flight.
- Pulkeet Mehra
T'was midnight, the horse trodded on.
A Knight in shining armour,
he rode and rode on
into the chill, the fog of the moor.
Passing the village, the town
yet out of sight.
The Knight carried on, not a frown
showed through his might.
The castle opens it gentries.
Darkness floods into Light.
The town sleeps gently,
not a child stirring in sight.
He gallops to the tower,
felling any defenders that might
dare challenge his power.
A bell rings, warning, through the night.
The door to the tower highest
comes down with a crash.
Inside of it, the brightest
most beautiful princess, tending a gash.
The two lovers embrace,
warm blood on cold metal.
Enwrapped in love, she falls to grace.
To end his misery, he must settle.
Up into the heavens,
against the morning suns light.
so peaceful, beautiful,
finally free. Two doves take flight.
- Pulkeet Mehra
Journey Of The Leaves
I walk out of the empty schoolhouse, as always the last to exit, having to force open those heavy mahogany doors by myself. No crowd of exiting students holds open the door, unconsciously, for me, in their rush to freedom. Away from those steps, leading into, or out of, the grand schoolhouse, stuck in between other buildings of the block.
In the sidewalk now, all deserted. The sky a pale gray, a cold wind whistling its presence; I tuck in my scarf. The golden crisp leaves of this desolate boulevard of trees, heavy with a year of strain, they too are leaving their place. I wonder where they all go. Raked by someone without an idea of their beauty and instilled with the idea that clean and orderly is beauty? Or do they float away? Into a warmer and more hospitable environment. One where they won’t degrade themselves, one where they won’t be used to fuel the decease of the world.
Walking further down, further away from that grandeur, passing cars parked at intervals, their bodies with a scattering of those golden maps. The main road is up ahead, the buses and cars and people more visible now. The noise is starting to overtake the calm and crispy air. I take out my music, plug in, and tune out. The traffic is still visible but its beat different. There’s an abandoned notebook, torn up, lying by a tree. The leaves falling and covering it. The great reunion of distant family.
Right by the corner, there are a bunch of stragglers, acquaintances from school. Were they too not willing to leave the school in a hurry? Were they there to stay in the schools shadows? Or were they just trying to stay warm? They were bunched up; I could not see what they were doing. They moved in closer, my presence was obvious to them. Glances followed, without hostility, a sort of curiosity. I nodded minutely, walked a couple feet, and waited for the light to turn green. The button frozen; unresponsive to my fingers.
Silence. I take off the earphones, cold rushes in, freezing my ears. The group is looking on, some whispering, with clouds of vapor emitting from their mouths, disappearing into the gray.
The absence of the music deafens me. The traffic is blaring, but I concentrate on the whispers of the wind, a bird or two still audible.
The light turns green. That instant clicking noise resonates through the air. Killing it. I put on the earphones again, at first the world is silenced into a dull hum, and then comes the tranquility and the comforting warmth. Some cars don’t heed the traffic light. There’s a mess of things at that intersection. A new car, bumped into an older one. The owners of each, both analogous to their vehicles, come out. The young one is furious, over reactive, yet silent to my ears. The old one: calm serene. It was the young ones fault, yet it is she who is screaming. The new car has much damage; the older one shows no difference. Walking around it, avoiding the broken glass now scattering the road, I look away. The Red Hand is signaling, beckoning me near. I heed.
I walk down the block, towards the left. That intersection and the chaos is but gone, the school building shows some effects of holding on, I long to turn back, maybe some warmth of those past years would still be there. Even if the thermostat is now permanently off. Smaller trees, imprisoned in their concrete land, with but a small square of forced life, line the pavement. No space to breathe, no space to give breath. This street is desolate, save a man. He must be blind, walking in such haste. The daily paper falls out of his coat pocket. It lands by an anorexic tree trunk. I pick it up; headlines blaring the queer weather, complaints of the lack of white beauty in this gray rusty desert, and of how the globe is changing, not doing what humans want it to. The man has disappeared by the time I look for him. I walk away, with the paper in my hands. This street is empty now. I cross a smaller side road, this time the steady red hand is ignored.
A car passes by, to my left, blaring music, it honks when it sees me. Some one leans out of the window, and screams something at me. I can’t hear, but they seem jubilant; they are celebrating. Must have been declared freemen. I recognize the car as one from the schools parking lot. A bottle is dropped from the now distant car, breaking on the sidewalk. By the time I reach it, the substance in it has spread out, now frost staining the sidewalk. I walk on the broken pieces of green glass, the crunch feeling through my legs and resonating through the rest of me. Is this what snow feels like?
I walk to the right, through some streets. I reach the library. It’s closed; a weird sight. More cold seeps into me. The scarf is tucked in deeper, tighter. I wait outside, sit on the bench. That constant thumping in my ears, as if counting down, or keeping pace. A bus arrives, I get on. It too is almost empty. An old lady in the back, staring, clutches her bag of groceries. Another woman, stares out of the window, indifferent. The ride is silent, though I am sure not for the ones around me. After a while I am left alone. I get up in a while, pull the string and push the button, repeatedly. A double bell. The driver seems irritated. I get off, he rushes away, with me standing in the exhaust, fumes of the dead. My query is answered, this is where it ends. My hands are cold again; I look down, realizing the paper is left in the bus.
Again I begin my walk, this time with certainty. The sky is still gray, a shade darker this time around. No birds in the sky, no planes flying by. The cool air rushes towards me now, I feel welcomed. Towards the water I walk. That gray blanket so cold yet so inviting. There is no one here, not even seabirds, as if they too have left their place. Walking over frosty sand interspersed with gravel and that city life. The wind blows, and with that sudden gust, comes a volley of leaves, all dispersed into the waters. Floating, their colors changing, and with that they sink. Invisible, I could not have guessed they were even there. I choose that boulder and sit down. Now, the music stops. Put away in the pocket of my coat. It is the turn of the waves to soothe me now, its gentle rippling effect, the constant breaking of water, of two worlds colliding. I sit above, a witness to it all.
Slowly, I rise, the music pulling me in. Sneakers in first, the cold first grab my feet, shooting through my body. I know it should recede slowly. By the time I am knee-deep, my waist is soaked. A flake of snow, so minute, yet witness to the torrent that will follow, falls behind me. Deeper I go, until complete, and surrounded by some leaves. There’s a curious sensation unfolding itself behind me, but I walk on. Warmth takes over; the rippling instruments take hold of me. Carry me by.
- Pulkeet Mehra
In the sidewalk now, all deserted. The sky a pale gray, a cold wind whistling its presence; I tuck in my scarf. The golden crisp leaves of this desolate boulevard of trees, heavy with a year of strain, they too are leaving their place. I wonder where they all go. Raked by someone without an idea of their beauty and instilled with the idea that clean and orderly is beauty? Or do they float away? Into a warmer and more hospitable environment. One where they won’t degrade themselves, one where they won’t be used to fuel the decease of the world.
Walking further down, further away from that grandeur, passing cars parked at intervals, their bodies with a scattering of those golden maps. The main road is up ahead, the buses and cars and people more visible now. The noise is starting to overtake the calm and crispy air. I take out my music, plug in, and tune out. The traffic is still visible but its beat different. There’s an abandoned notebook, torn up, lying by a tree. The leaves falling and covering it. The great reunion of distant family.
Right by the corner, there are a bunch of stragglers, acquaintances from school. Were they too not willing to leave the school in a hurry? Were they there to stay in the schools shadows? Or were they just trying to stay warm? They were bunched up; I could not see what they were doing. They moved in closer, my presence was obvious to them. Glances followed, without hostility, a sort of curiosity. I nodded minutely, walked a couple feet, and waited for the light to turn green. The button frozen; unresponsive to my fingers.
Silence. I take off the earphones, cold rushes in, freezing my ears. The group is looking on, some whispering, with clouds of vapor emitting from their mouths, disappearing into the gray.
The absence of the music deafens me. The traffic is blaring, but I concentrate on the whispers of the wind, a bird or two still audible.
The light turns green. That instant clicking noise resonates through the air. Killing it. I put on the earphones again, at first the world is silenced into a dull hum, and then comes the tranquility and the comforting warmth. Some cars don’t heed the traffic light. There’s a mess of things at that intersection. A new car, bumped into an older one. The owners of each, both analogous to their vehicles, come out. The young one is furious, over reactive, yet silent to my ears. The old one: calm serene. It was the young ones fault, yet it is she who is screaming. The new car has much damage; the older one shows no difference. Walking around it, avoiding the broken glass now scattering the road, I look away. The Red Hand is signaling, beckoning me near. I heed.
I walk down the block, towards the left. That intersection and the chaos is but gone, the school building shows some effects of holding on, I long to turn back, maybe some warmth of those past years would still be there. Even if the thermostat is now permanently off. Smaller trees, imprisoned in their concrete land, with but a small square of forced life, line the pavement. No space to breathe, no space to give breath. This street is desolate, save a man. He must be blind, walking in such haste. The daily paper falls out of his coat pocket. It lands by an anorexic tree trunk. I pick it up; headlines blaring the queer weather, complaints of the lack of white beauty in this gray rusty desert, and of how the globe is changing, not doing what humans want it to. The man has disappeared by the time I look for him. I walk away, with the paper in my hands. This street is empty now. I cross a smaller side road, this time the steady red hand is ignored.
A car passes by, to my left, blaring music, it honks when it sees me. Some one leans out of the window, and screams something at me. I can’t hear, but they seem jubilant; they are celebrating. Must have been declared freemen. I recognize the car as one from the schools parking lot. A bottle is dropped from the now distant car, breaking on the sidewalk. By the time I reach it, the substance in it has spread out, now frost staining the sidewalk. I walk on the broken pieces of green glass, the crunch feeling through my legs and resonating through the rest of me. Is this what snow feels like?
I walk to the right, through some streets. I reach the library. It’s closed; a weird sight. More cold seeps into me. The scarf is tucked in deeper, tighter. I wait outside, sit on the bench. That constant thumping in my ears, as if counting down, or keeping pace. A bus arrives, I get on. It too is almost empty. An old lady in the back, staring, clutches her bag of groceries. Another woman, stares out of the window, indifferent. The ride is silent, though I am sure not for the ones around me. After a while I am left alone. I get up in a while, pull the string and push the button, repeatedly. A double bell. The driver seems irritated. I get off, he rushes away, with me standing in the exhaust, fumes of the dead. My query is answered, this is where it ends. My hands are cold again; I look down, realizing the paper is left in the bus.
Again I begin my walk, this time with certainty. The sky is still gray, a shade darker this time around. No birds in the sky, no planes flying by. The cool air rushes towards me now, I feel welcomed. Towards the water I walk. That gray blanket so cold yet so inviting. There is no one here, not even seabirds, as if they too have left their place. Walking over frosty sand interspersed with gravel and that city life. The wind blows, and with that sudden gust, comes a volley of leaves, all dispersed into the waters. Floating, their colors changing, and with that they sink. Invisible, I could not have guessed they were even there. I choose that boulder and sit down. Now, the music stops. Put away in the pocket of my coat. It is the turn of the waves to soothe me now, its gentle rippling effect, the constant breaking of water, of two worlds colliding. I sit above, a witness to it all.
Slowly, I rise, the music pulling me in. Sneakers in first, the cold first grab my feet, shooting through my body. I know it should recede slowly. By the time I am knee-deep, my waist is soaked. A flake of snow, so minute, yet witness to the torrent that will follow, falls behind me. Deeper I go, until complete, and surrounded by some leaves. There’s a curious sensation unfolding itself behind me, but I walk on. Warmth takes over; the rippling instruments take hold of me. Carry me by.
- Pulkeet Mehra
I don't know beauty
I don't know beauty.
I have never seen it with my eyes.
Never has it fluttered by me,
like a spring butterfly.
Nor has it poured down my window
on a cold damp night
as I lay on warm clouds in flight.
Beauty has never whispered into my ears;
a silent desert, all these years.
It has never been a breeze and
fluttered my hair.
There has been no breeze,
no beauty, no air.
Beauty was never a beach for me.
It never crashed like waves
nor dissappeared with the tide.
It has been to me the dark side of the moon,
unknown, neverseen, a thing desired.
Beauty has been no
friend of mine.
- Pulkeet Mehra
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