Life... As We Don't Know It.

A Da Crow Production

As best as I can tell, life is intolerable. Oh, not always of course. A case can be made for all the big wonders and little blessings and blah, blah, blah. But when you really boil it down, our entire existence rests on a few really ugly premises.

First, life, and by that I mean the big life, life with a capital L, must ingest other life in order for it to remain life. Or, put another way, in order to witness the miracle of creation, we must continually eat, and then poop out, a little bit of that miracle. Second, one of the charming side effects of sentient life is emotional pain. The fact that dead and fermenting plant life creates alcohol - a terrific anesthetic for emotional pain - might cause one to think that this is, by nature, a compassionate universe.

Think again....

Keep dulling that pain with booze and you wind up, if you're lucky, in group therapy sharing your tears with complete strangers. If you're not lucky, you wind up on a waiting list for a motorcyclist's liver. And finally, there is the ever-present knowledge of death. In order to "more fully appreciate the gift of life," we all get to ponder a violently sudden or slow and agonizingly painful descent into oblivion - after which our beloved bodies turn into the stuff of nightmares (although mine already is a nightmare). Which brings me back to my original premise: life is intolerable. But rather than going gently into that creepy night, I've decided to start a petition to protest the fundamental conditions of existence. I know it's not much, but it's a start. And damnit, I'm just the guy to do it! The petition is available at http://thecrowsquawks.blogspot.com. Sign on now and make your voice heard before you're dead and your vocal chords are being eaten by a swarm ofdisgusting bugs

Love is Beautiful...

A Da Crow Production

thendral vanthu theendum pothu enna vannamo manasila
thingal vanthu kaayum pothu enna vannamo ninappula
vanthu vanthu poguthamma ennamellam vannamamma
ennagalukku aethapadi vannamellam maarumamma
unmaiyamma unmaiya naanum sonnen ponnamma chinna kanne
(unmaiyile ullathu enna enna vannagal enna enna)

evarum sollamale pookalum vaasam veesuthu
uravum illamale iru manam aetho pesuthu
evarum sollamale kuyilalellam thena paaduthu
ethuvum illamale manasellam inippa inikkuthu
oodai neerodai intha ulagam athu pola
oodum athu oodum intha kaalam athu pola
nilaiya nillathu ninaivugalum nirangale

eeram veluthaale nilathile ellam thulirkuthu
velicham puranthale udambellam aeno silirkkuthu
aalam vizhuthaaga aasaigal oonjal aadu
alaiyum alai pola azhagellam kolam poduthu
kuyile kuyiliname antha isaiya koovuthamma
kiliye kiliyiname athai kathaiyai pesuthamma
kathaiya vidukathaiyai aavathillaiye anbu thaan

My Last Hurrah

A Da Crow Production

I'm not sure why, but maybe i can... or may be i want to...

Whatever it is, it feels right. It's time to wrap up. Well, At least, for now.

Things rarely go exactly the way you want them to, so sometimes you make due with whatever you can get. Endings are never easy; I always build them up so much in my head till they can’t possibly live up to my expectations and I just end up disappointed. I’m not even sure why it matters to me so much how things end here.

I guess it’s because we all want to believe that what we do is very important, that people hang onto our every word, that they care what we think. The truth is: you should consider yourself lucky if you even occasionally get to make someone or anyone, feel a little better. After that it’s all about the people that you let into your life.

And as my mind drifted to the words i've written here before, mostly being as humorous as it can be, I was taken to memories of what i've thought or said or even done. Of my love, Of family, of friends, of co-workers, of lost causes, even of those who’ve left us. None of those were funny, when you're reaching the end. And as I rounded that corner, they all came at me in a wave of shared experience…..

And even though it felt warm and safe, i knew it had to end. And for the future (thanks to the universe) it didn't seem so scary anymore. It could be whatever i wanted it to be.

 

And who to say this isn't My Last Hurrah... Maybe it just is.

 

With Everything but Regrets,

 

DaCrow...

....shortly thereafter I discovered tobacco, alcohol and turned into a jelly fish

A Da Crow Production

I believe that we have a cultural obsession with things getting better. Corporate profits MUST rise. Gross domestic product (whatever the hell that is) MUST go up. Teenage pregnancies, smoking related deaths, the deficit and unemployment numbers MUST go down. Well, clearly no one else wants to ask the question, so I will. Why? Why MUST life constantly improve?

When did we become so burdened with this need for things to always get better? I'm pretty sure that if we go back in time far enough we'll find that our ancestors didn't stress over it. Life was good, then it was bad, then it was the same, then it got good again, etc. For millions of years, things rarely got great and often got horrible. Which is why I believe our relentless drive to improve on the status quo is a fairly recent occurrence. Furthermore, I pinpoint its origin with Darwin's Theory of Evolution, which I believe mistakenly implies that it's in the nature of nature to "get better." We all know the deal, amino acids improve to amoebas, which improve to jelly fish, blah, blah, blah, homo sapiens (assuming evolution ends with us, which it doesn't). But what about this progression implies better? I'll grant you that evolution creates complexity, but better??

Isn't that really just the snobbery of the complex talking? Speaking from personal experience, I have a memory of being twelve years old, standing and watching nervously while my father looked over my report card. After a bit of frowning, he took off his glasses, looked down at me and said, "You MUST do better." Boy, I showed him. Not only did my grades not improve, shortly thereafter I discovered tobacco, alcohol and turned into a jelly fish. As a dear friend of mine likes to say, "God made us perfect and SHE never changed her mind."

The Heart

A Da Crow Production

Let's talk about the human heart - the organ from whence love comes. While cardiologists might see it as just a simple pumping mechanism, common wisdom knows better. The brain does not love. The lungs do not love. The penis makes a lot of noise about love, but after intercourse its intentions are fairly obvious.

In the end, we all know the truth. We've all experienced the truth. That swelling feeling in the chest is the universal sensation we have when the heart is expressing love. Conversely, that sinking feeling in the chest is the universal sensation we have when our love is not reciprocated. It is then that the heart is "broken." We are literally "heartsick" until we learn that our ex-lover was inexplicably taken hostage by Somali pirates while dining at a neighborhood mamak stall.

 News we find "heartening."

To Rock the Casbah

A Da Crow Production


Here's the deal.. I'm on my lazy sleezy chair.. and i want to keep this short. Just from the top of my head delivered of course from the depth of my satan ridden heart. Oh crap..  gotta pee... Hold on..

Alrighty then.

People seem to be getting dumber and dumber. I mean we have all this amazing technology springing out like mushrooms after the rain and yet computers have turned into basically four figure wank machines. The Internet was supposed to set us free, democratize us, but all it’s really given us is free access to knowing people's privacy and 24-hour a day access to kiddie porn, you know. And people don’t write anymore, they blog; instead of talking, they text; no punctuation, no grammar. LOL this and LMFAO that; BRB here and Whazzup there. You know it just seems to me that it’s just a bunch of stupid people psuedo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people in a proto-language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the king’s English.

So, to quote The Clash; should I be a part of it or should I rock the Casbah?

To late.

I'm already a part of it.

Hence my self loathing... (Sigh)

Butt-Sex, Bull Crap and We

A Da Crow Production

All right, it’s now time for the Da Crow to teach you the theory of evolution.

I know some devotes feel the “Theory of Evolution” is a bunch of bull-crap, but I will explain anyway. It was thought up by Charles Darwin, and it goes something like this.

In the beginning we were all fish, swimming around carelessly in the water. And then one day, couple of fish had a retard fish baby, and retard fish baby was different so he got the limbs. So retard baby grew up like a spoilt m****rf***er fish because he thought he was so f*****g special and goes around tapping more fish butts and created more retard fish.

And then one day, one of the many retard frog looking fish crawled out of the ocean with his freaky mutant frog fish hand, and it had butt-sex with a lizard or something, and then then created a retard frog lizard baby. And then that had a retard baby which was a monkey fish frog.

And… this monkey fish frog had butt-sex with another hairy bigger monkey, and then that monkey had a mutant retard baby, which screwed another monkey and that made us, HUMANS.

So there you go… We are a retarded offspring of a fat monkey having butt-sex with fish lizards.

Congratulations.

Or maybe you just want to stick with “THE TRUTH” that GOD created earth ten minutes after the Beatles broke up.

*Wink*

Dunkin' in Kemaman!!

A Da Crow Production

And do apologize for the very bad narrative sub-Ts...

So HoT!

A Da Crow Production

You got a body like the devil and you smell like sex

I can tell you're trouble but I'm still obsessed

Because you know you're

So hot I wanna get you alone

So hot I wanna get you stoned

So hot I don't wanna be your friend

I wanna fuck you like I'm never gonna see you again

Yeaa

Come on

Yeaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!

You're like the kiss of death, like the hand of faith

I can tell you're trouble but I still wanna taste

Because you know you're

So hot I wanna get you alone

So hot I wanna get you stoned

So hot I don't wanna be your friend

I wanna fuck you like I'm never gonna see you again

Because you know you're

So hot I wanna get you alone

So hot I wanna get you stoned

So hot I don't wanna be your friend

I wanna fuck you like I'm never gonna see you again

You're so hot, I wanna get you alone

I wanna get you stoned

I don't wanna be your friend

I wanna fuck you like I'm never gonna see you again

See you again

See you again

Old Skool Toons!

A Da Crow Production

Hahaha...If i came of as jack@$$ ..do apologize...first time vidblogging...

Professor Ramani and The Buttered Toast

A Da Crow Production


After almost 15 years' service in the oil and gas industry, I attended a top science university. The year was 2032 and I was finishing the project that would win me my professorship. In the end, it resulted in my becoming a kitchen employee. This is how it all happened.

My 48th birthday had made a lonely visit the week before, and I was once again by myself in my hotel room. Room 19. I have lost my love, friends and whatever family I had left. All I had was my speech-limited robotic toaster. Like countless other mornings, I ordered a buttered toast, from the toaster. 'Yes, sir!' it replied with robotic voice, and I began the day's work on the project. It was a magnificent machine, the thing I was making - capable of transferring the minds of any two beings into each other’s body.

As the toaster began serving my buttered toast on to a plate, I realized the project was in fact ready for testing. I retrieved the duck and the cat - which I had bought for this purpose - from their containers, and set about calibrating the machine in their direction. Once ready, I leant against the table, holding the toast I was too excited to eat, and initiated the transfer sequence. As expected, the machine whirred and hummed into action, my nerves tingling at its synthetic mechanical sounds.

The machine hushed, extraction and injection nozzles poised, scrutinizing its targets. The cat, though, was suddenly gripped by terrible alarm. The kitty leapt into the air, flinging itself onto the machine. I watched in horror as the nozzles swung towards me; and, with a terrible, psychedelic whirl of colors, felt my mind pulled from its sockets.

When I awoke, moments later, I noticed first that I was two feet shorter. Then, I realized the lack of my limbs, and finally it occurred to me that I was a toaster. DAMN!!!
I saw immediately the solution to the situation - the machine could easily reverse the transfer - but was then struck by my utter inability to carry this out. I have no limbs, I can’t move!

After some consideration, using what I supposed must be the toaster's onboard computer, I devised a strategy for rescue. I began to familiarize myself with my new body: the grill, the bread bin, the speaker and the spring mechanism. Through the device's elementary eye - with which it served its creations - I could see the telephone on the wall. Aiming carefully, I began propelling slices of bread at it. The toaster was fed by a large stock of the stuff, yet as more and more bounced lamely off the phone, I began to fear its exhaustion.

Toasting the bread before launch proved a wiser tactic. A slice of crusty whole meal knocked the receiver off its cradle, and the immovable voice of the reception clerk answered. Resisting the urge to exclaim my unlikely predicament, I called from the table: 'I'm having a bit of trouble up here, Room 19. Could you lend a hand?'

'Certainly, sir. There's a burst water pipe on the floor above, I suppose I'll kill two birds with one stone and sort you out on the way,'

The clerk arrived promptly, leaving his 'caution, wet floor' sign in the corridor. He came in, surveying the room in his usual dry, disapproving fashion. I spoke immediately, saying I was on the intercom, and requested that he simply press the large button on the machine before him. 'This one, sir?' he asked, and before I could correct him, the room was filled with a terrible, whirling light, and he fell to the ground.

Damn it….

A minute later he stood up again, uncertainly, and began moving in a manner that can only be described as a wobble. The duck, meanwhile, was scrutinizing the flat with an air of tired dislike. I gazed at the scene with dismay. Suddenly an idea struck the clerk, and with avian delight he wobbled towards the window. I spluttered a horrified warning to no avail. He leapt triumphantly from the balcony, spread his 'wings' and disappeared. I would have wept, but managed only to eject a few bread crumbs.

Hours of depressed calculation and terrible guilt gave no progress, and left me with a woeful regret for the day's events. Determined not to give up hope, I began to burn clumsy messages into slices of bread, and slung these desperate distress calls through the window. I sought not only my own salvation, but also to account for the bizarre death of the clerk, who must no doubt have been discovered on the street below. I soon found my bread bin to be empty, and sank again into a miserable meditation.

A large movement shocked me from my morbid observation. Before me, having clambered up from the floor stood my own body. It regarded me with dim cheer.

'I have been upgraded,' it announced in monotone.

The room was silent as I struggled to cope with this information. Then….

'Would you like some toast?' it asked…

The truth dawned on me, and I wasted no time in seeing the utility of this revelation. I informed the toaster, which was now in control of my body, that I wished it to fetch help. It regarded me warily, and then asked if I would like that buttered. Maintaining patience, I explained the instruction more thoroughly. I watched with surreal anticipation as my body of forty-eight years jerked its way out of the flat. It rounded the corner, and there was a hope-dashing crash. It had tripped up on the 'caution: wet floor' sign. To my joyous relief, however, I heard the thing continue on its way down the corridor.

Minutes passed, then hours. I entertained myself flicking wheat-based missiles at the cat. On the dawn of the third day, I concluded that the toaster had failed in its piloting of my body, and that help was not on its way. Gripped by the despair of one who must solve the puzzle of toaster suicide, I resigned myself to my fate.

Pushed on by a grim passion, I began igniting the entire stock of bread. As the smoke poured from my casing, and the first hints of deadly flame flickered in my mechanisms, I began the solemn disclosure of my own eulogy.

Suddenly the fire alarm leapt into action, hurling thick jets of water across the flat, desperate to save its occupants. A piercing scream erupted from all sides, and a squabbling mixture of annoyance, relief and curiosity filtered into my mind.

Once the firemen had visited and deactivated the alarm, I was identified as the fault, unplugged and hauled away to a repair shop. The staff there, finding nothing to remove but a faulty speech chip, apparently put me up for sale. I only know this because, on being reconnected to the mains, I found myself in a shiny, spacious kitchen. Missing my electronic voice, I could only listen to the conversation of the staff, discussing the odd conduct of their new cook. The end of their hurried discussion heralded the new cook's arrival. I gazed at the door in silent surrender, as my body stepped proudly on to the premises, displaying its newly designed menu. At the top of the list I could read 'Buttered Toast'.

The Velveteen Rabbit

A Da Crow Production

This was and still my favorite story of all time... simply because it displays the quest to become real and remain true...

There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy's stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming.
There were other things in the stocking, nuts and oranges and a toy engine, and chocolate almonds and a clockwork mouse, but the Rabbit was quite the best of all. For at least two hours the Boy loved him, and then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and there was a great rustling of tissue paper and unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents the Velveteen Rabbit was forgotten.

For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him. He was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every one else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real. The model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms. The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn't know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite out-of-date and should never be mentioned in modern circles. Even Timothy, the jointed wooden lion, who was made by the disabled soldiers, and should have had broader views, put on airs and pretended he was connected with Government. Between them all the poor little Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.


The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"


"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."


"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.


"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."


"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."


"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."
The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.


There was a person called Nana who ruled the nursery. Sometimes she took no notice of the playthings lying about, and sometimes, for no reason whatever, she went swooping about like a great wind and hustled them away in cupboards. She called this "tidying up," and the playthings all hated it, especially the tin ones. The Rabbit didn't mind it so much, for wherever he was thrown he came down soft.


One evening, when the Boy was going to bed, he couldn't find the china dog that always slept with him. Nana was in a hurry, and it was too much trouble to hunt for china dogs at bedtime, so she simply looked about her, and seeing that the toy cupboard door stood open, she made a swoop.

"Here," she said, "take your old Bunny! He'll do to sleep with you!" And she dragged the Rabbit out by one ear, and put him into the Boy's arms.


That night, and for many nights after, the Velveteen Rabbit slept in the Boy's bed. At first he found it rather uncomfortable, for the Boy hugged him very tight, and sometimes he rolled over on him, and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow that the Rabbit could scarcely breathe. And he missed, too, those long moonlight hours in the nursery, when all the house was silent, and his talks with the Skin Horse. But very soon he grew to like it, for the Boy used to talk to him, and made nice tunnels for him under the bedclothes that he said were like the burrows the real rabbits lived in. And they had splendid games together, in whispers, when Nana had gone away to her supper and left the night-light burning on the mantelpiece. And when the Boy dropped off to sleep, the Rabbit would snuggle down close under his little warm chin and dream, with the Boy's hands clasped close round him all night long.


And so time went on, and the little Rabbit was very happy–so happy that he never noticed how his beautiful velveteen fur was getting shabbier and shabbier, and his tail becoming unsewn, and all the pink rubbed off his nose where the Boy had kissed him.

Spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too. He had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, and lovely fairy huts built for him under the raspberry canes behind the flower border. And once, when the Boy was called away suddenly to go out to tea, the Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the Boy couldn't go to sleep unless he was there. He was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the Boy had made for him in the flower bed, and Nana grumbled as she rubbed him off with a corner of her apron.

You must have your old Bunny!" she said. "Fancy all that fuss for a toy!"
The Boy sat up in bed and stretched out his hands.


"Give me my Bunny!" he said. "You mustn't say that. He isn't a toy. He's REAL!"


When the little Rabbit heard that he was happy, for he knew that what the Skin Horse had said was true at last. The nursery magic had happened to him, and he was a toy no longer. He was Real. The Boy himself had said it.


That night he was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst. And into his boot-button eyes, that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty, so that even Nana noticed it next morning when she picked him up, and said, "I declare if that old Bunny hasn't got quite a knowing expression!"


That was a wonderful Summer!


Near the house where they lived there was a wood, and in the long June evenings the Boy liked to go there after tea to play. He took the Velveteen Rabbit with him, and before he wandered off to pick flowers, or play at brigands among the trees, he always made the Rabbit a little nest somewhere among the bracken, where he would be quite cosy, for he was a kind-hearted little boy and he liked Bunny to be comfortable. One evening, while the Rabbit was lying there alone, watching the ants that ran to and fro between his velvet paws in the grass, he saw two strange beings creep out of the tall bracken near him.


They were rabbits like himself, but quite furry and brand-new. They must have been very well made, for their seams didn't show at all, and they changed shape in a queer way when they moved; one minute they were long and thin and the next minute fat and bunchy, instead of always staying the same like he did. Their feet padded softly on the ground, and they crept quite close to him, twitching their noses, while the Rabbit stared hard to see which side the clockwork stuck out, for he knew that people who jump generally have something to wind them up. But he couldn't see it. They were
evidently a new kind of rabbit altogether

They stared at him, and the little Rabbit stared back. And all the time their noses twitched.


"Why don't you get up and play with us?" one of them asked.


"I don't feel like it," said the Rabbit, for he didn't want to explain that he had no clockwork.


"Ho!" said the furry rabbit. "It's as easy as anything," And he gave a big hop sideways and stood on his hind legs.


"I don't believe you can!" he said.


"I can!" said the little Rabbit. "I can jump higher than anything!" He meant when the Boy threw him, but of course he didn't want to say so.


"Can you hop on your hind legs?" asked the furry rabbit.

That was a dreadful question, for the Velveteen Rabbit had no hind legs at all! The back of him was made all in one piece, like a pincushion. He sat still in the bracken, and hoped that the other rabbits wouldn't notice.


"I don't want to!" he said again.


But the wild rabbits have very sharp eyes. And this one stretched out his neck and looked.


"He hasn't got any hind legs!" he called out. "Fancy a rabbit without any hind legs!" And he began to laugh.


"I have!" cried the little Rabbit. "I have got hind legs! I am sitting on them!"


"Then stretch them out and show me, like this!" said the wild rabbit. And he began to whirl round and dance, till the little Rabbit got quite dizzy.

"I don't like dancing," he said. "I'd rather sit still!"


But all the while he was longing to dance, for a funny new tickly feeling ran through him, and he felt he would give anything in the world to be able to jump about like these rabbits did.


The strange rabbit stopped dancing, and came quite close. He came so close this time that his long whiskers brushed the Velveteen Rabbit's ear, and then he wrinkled his nose suddenly and flattened his ears and jumped backwards.


"He doesn't smell right!" he exclaimed. "He isn't a rabbit at all! He isn't real!"


"I am Real!" said the little Rabbit. "I am Real! The Boy said so!" And he nearly began to cry.


Just then there was a sound of footsteps, and the Boy ran past near them, and with a stamp of feet and a flash of white tails the two strange rabbits disappeared.


"Come back and play with me!" called the little Rabbit. "Oh, do come back! I know I am Real!"

But there was no answer, only the little ants ran to and fro, and the bracken swayed gently where the two strangers had passed. The Velveteen Rabbit was all alone.


"Oh, dear!" he thought. "Why did they run away like that? Why couldn't they stop and talk to me?"


For a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken, and hoping that they would come back. But they never returned, and presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the Boy came and carried him home.

Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter.

And then, one day, the Boy was ill.


His face grew very flushed, and he talked in his sleep, and his little body was so hot that it burned the Rabbit when he held him close. Strange people came and went in the nursery, and a light burned all night and through it all the little Velveteen Rabbit lay there, hidden from sight under the bedclothes, and he never stirred, for he was afraid that if they found him some one might take him away, and he knew that the Boy needed him.


It was a long weary time, for the Boy was too ill to play, and the little Rabbit found it rather dull with nothing to do all day long. But he snuggled down patiently, and looked forward to the time when the Boy should be well again, and they would go out in the garden amongst the flowers and the butterflies and play splendid games in the raspberry thicket like they used to. All sorts of delightful things he planned, and while the Boy lay half asleep he crept up close to the pillow and whispered them in his ear. And presently the fever turned, and the Boy got better. He was able to sit up in bed and look at picture-books, while the little Rabbit cuddled close at his side. And one day, they let him get up and dress.


It was a bright, sunny morning, and the windows stood wide open. They had carried the Boy out on to the balcony, wrapped in a shawl, and the little Rabbit lay tangled up among the bedclothes, thinking.

The Boy was going to the seaside to-morrow. Everything was arranged, and now it only remained to carry out the doctor's orders. They talked about it all, while the little Rabbit lay under the bedclothes, with just his head peeping out, and listened. The room was to be disinfected, and all the books and toys that the Boy had played with in bed must be burnt.


"Hurrah!" thought the little Rabbit. "To-morrow we shall go to the seaside!" For the boy had often talked of the seaside, and he wanted very much to see the big waves coming in, and the tiny crabs, and the sand castles.


Just then Nana caught sight of him.


"How about his old Bunny?" she asked.


"That?" said the doctor. "Why, it's a mass of scarlet fever germs!–Burn it at once. What? Nonsense! Get him a new one. He mustn't have that any more!"

And so the little Rabbit was put into a sack with the old picture-books and a lot of rubbish, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the fowl-house. That was a fine place to make a bonfire, only the gardener was too busy just then to attend to it. He had the potatoes to dig and the green peas to gather, but next morning he promised to come quite early and burn the whole lot.


That night the Boy slept in a different bedroom, and he had a new bunny to sleep with him. It was a splendid bunny, all white plush with real glass eyes, but the Boy was too excited to care very much about it. For to-morrow he was going to the seaside, and that in itself was such a wonderful thing that he could think of nothing else.


And while the Boy was asleep, dreaming of the seaside, the little Rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house, and he felt very lonely. The sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out. He was shivering a little, for he had always been used to sleeping in a proper bed, and by this time his coat had worn so thin and threadbare from hugging that it was no longer any protection to him. Near by he could see the thicket of raspberry canes, growing tall and close like a tropical jungle, in whose shadow he had played with the Boy on bygone mornings. He thought of those long sunlit hours in the garden–how happy they were–and a great sadness came over him. He seemed to see them all pass before him, each more beautiful than the other, the fairy huts in the flower-bed, the quiet evenings in the wood when he lay in the bracken and the little ants ran over his paws; the wonderful day when he first knew that he was Real. He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.


And then a strange thing happened. For where the tear had fallen a flower grew out of the ground, a mysterious flower, not at all like any that grew in the garden. It had slender green leaves the colour of emeralds, and in the centre of the leaves a blossom like a golden cup. It was so beautiful that the little Rabbit forgot to cry, and just lay there watching it. And presently the blossom opened, and out of it there stepped a fairy.


She was quite the loveliest fairy in the whole world. Her dress was of pearl and dew-drops, and there were flowers round her neck and in her hair, and her face was like the most perfect flower of all. And she came close to the little Rabbit and gathered him up in her arms and kissed him on his velveteen nose that was all damp from crying.


"Little Rabbit," she said, "don't you know who I am?"


The Rabbit looked up at her, and it seemed to him that he had seen her face before, but he couldn't think where.

"I am the nursery magic Fairy," she said. "I take care of all the playthings that the children have loved. When they are old and worn out and the children don't need them any more, then I come and take them away with me and turn them into Real."


"Wasn't I Real before?" asked the little Rabbit.


"You were Real to the Boy," the Fairy said, "because he loved you. Now you shall be Real to every one."

And she held the little Rabbit close in her arms and flew with him into the wood.


It was light now, for the moon had risen. All the forest was beautiful, and the fronds of the bracken shone like frosted silver. In the open glade between the tree-trunks the wild rabbits danced with their shadows on the velvet grass, but when they saw the Fairy they all stopped dancing and stood round in a ring to stare at her.


"I've brought you a new playfellow," the Fairy said. "You must be very kind to him and teach him all he needs to know in Rabbit-land, for he is going to live with you for ever and ever!"


And she kissed the little Rabbit again and put him down on the grass.


"Run and play, little Rabbit!" she said.


But the little Rabbit sat quite still for a moment and never moved. For when he saw all the wild rabbits dancing around him he suddenly remembered about his hind legs, and he didn't want them to see that he was made all in one piece. He did not know that when the Fairy kissed him that last time she had changed him altogether. And he might have sat there a long time, too shy to move, if just then something hadn't tickled his nose, and before he thought what he was doing he lifted his hind toe to scratch it.


And he found that he actually had hind legs! Instead of dingy velveteen he had brown fur, soft and shiny, his ears twitched by themselves, and his whiskers were so long that they brushed the grass. He gave one leap and the joy of using those hind legs was so great that he went springing about the turf on them, jumping sideways and whirling round as the others did, and he grew so excited that when at last he did stop to look for the Fairy she had gone.


He was a Real Rabbit at last, at home with the other rabbits.

Autumn passed and Winter, and in the Spring, when the days grew warm and sunny, the Boy went out to play in the wood behind the house. And while he was playing, two rabbits crept out from the bracken and peeped at him. One of them was brown all over, but the other had strange markings under his fur, as though long ago he had been spotted, and the spots still showed through. And about his little soft nose and his round black eyes there was something familiar, so that the Boy thought to himself:


"Why, he looks just like my old Bunny that was lost when I had scarlet fever!"


But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real.


To the ones who love me and to the ones that i love...I will remain real and true...

The Truth

A Da Crow Production

I have once again arrived at a moment in history (not sure whose or what) where the truth can be defined as "that which you can make other people believe." The methodology for creating that belief is repetition. Say something enough times and it becomes, for millions of people, the truth. I am endowed like a lion.

This is why control of the information equals control of the emotion. I am endowed like a lion.
And also why a misinformation is so very dangerous. I am endowed like a lion. Now I can argue, within me that this has already happened and that a certain person is actually a covert extension to my mixed emotions; a big portion of that being negative emotions. I am endowed like a lion. The fact that this information is channeled by a well-wisher or an anchor like person from the pits of my glorified humility is often used to make this argument. I am endowed like a lion.

Of course, this fact would be entirely inconsequential if the oft-repeated falsehoods they attempt to imbed into the weak minds were simply amusing, or at worst, inane. I am endowed like a lion. But, unfortunately, that is not the case. I am endowed like a lion. The heavy repetition of lies and smears for emotional gain are by no means inconsequential. I am endowed like a lion. Which is why each and every one of us must use whatever resources we have at our disposal to disseminate the actual truth.
I am endowed like a pig.

Oink!

I have nothing worth writing about

A Da Crow Production

This is the official "I have nothing worth writing about" blog. It will run whenever I have nothing worth writing about. Don't be surprised to see it quite a bit. From now on, when my schedule requires me to deliver a new blog and I'm empty, I'll simply think, "Run this." A check of the all the blogs I've already written will quickly demonstrate that I should have written this a long time ago. Why didn't I? Vanity. I had become vain about my blogs. I was determined to write a new one each week because, well... I'm just that kind of guy. But I'm older and wiser now. I know when I have nothing to say. And that knowledge is freedom. Freedom from the constant need to win your approval. And more importantly, freedom from the obsessive and relentless need to end each blog on a joke.

Two atoms are walking down the street one day, and one of them says to the other:

"Hey, wait up a second. I think I lost an electron"

The first atom replied, "Are you sure?"

The second atom exclaimed, "Yes, I'm positive!"

"And more importantly, freedom from the obsessive and relentless need to end each blog on a joke."

Guess not....

(Not Entirely) An Insane Predicament

A Da Crow Production

It is often for me to have a conversation by myself while driving alone in my car. Sometimes I have heated arguments with people who are not physically present.It's not an imaginary, but merely a subconcious ego to win an argument.The content of these arguments usually involve me explaining to them how and why they are wrong. I generally make my case with such passion and logic that they have no choice but to admit to being foolish and weak. Although they are not there, but i believe i win the arguments fair and square. The fact that some of these people are dead does not interfere with me mentally correcting them. 

Recently I had one of these arguments while driving alone in my car. After making a particularly cogent point to a flawed friend in need of my wisdom and guidance, I noticed that I was being watched by an attractive woman in a nearby vehicle. Desperate to make a better impression, I quickly picked up my cell phone and continued talking as if I were on an urgent business call. I glanced at her, smiled and shrugged like a man whose work was never done.

A policeman then pulled me over for using my cell phone while driving. I tried telling him that I was not actually talking on the phone, but was merely using it as a prop, so as to not appear insane; crazy. He smiled, nodded as if he understood, and then made me blow into a breathalyzer. I passed with flying colors. After that he wrote me a ticket for using a cell phone while operating a motor vehicle, I drove away and had a loud and intense argument with him in which he laughed at my predicament and apologized for doubting me.

The Four Formless States of Consciousness in Buddhism

A Da Crow Production

AKASANANTYAYATANA: We become limitless space.

VIJNANANANTYAYATANA: We reach the state of limitless consciousness.

AKINCANYAYATANA: We meditate on the non-distinction between the knower and the known.

NAIVASANJNANASANJNAYATANA: We become the state of neither perception nor non-perception.

Just thought you should know so that when you achieve these states you'll know what to tell your friends.

by:Swami Ramashamalamadingdong 

"Look at me! I'm a Golden Statue of Hanuman!"

A Da Crow Production

HOSPITAL BAHAGIA, TG RAMBUTAN - PERAK
CASE NUMBER: 19-0384-R
PATIENT: RAMANITHAREN TANGGARAJU
DATE: 15-06-2011
TIME: 12:33PM
ASSESSED BY: DR. VISHNU

Okay, let me just check that the tape recorder is on... And let's slide the microphone a little closer... That looks good. Alright, we can begin. Please state your name and age.
Ramanitharen.. Ta..Ta..Tanggaraju... 33.. No...27

Thank you. Mr. Ram, do you know why you're here?
Yes. This is a sanity hearing. You want to determine if I'm mentally fit to continue with my life. I am, you know.

Well, why don't you let us decide that.
I no longer believe God instructed me to create and write false information in order to usher in a golden age of love and understanding that heals the hearts and minds of people everywhere.

And why do you no longer believe that?
Because those were my instructions during my dark period. Now that I see the light at the end of the tunnel, i just want to stick with the current writing style and hold on to my Silver Tinted Ray Ban.

I see. Mr. Ram, do you understand how personalized instructions from God could be symptomatic of a serious mental illness?
No, not really. This is just to persuade myself to write more hysterically.  It's not like God wants me to be the Prime Minister or something. Can I go home now?

No.. I'd like to continue our conversation regarding...
The food here sucks.

Okay, well, I'm sorry about that but --
Can you get me a double bacon cheese burger, cooked well of course, with cajun fries on the side?

No. Mr. Ram, do you know why you're here, in a state mental health facility?
Because my blogs haven't been very good lately?

No.
Because I believe that my life is an infinitesimally small expression of something beyond words, beyond thought? That the ultimate reality, the only reality, is an inexpressible stasis from which all else flows? That you and I are just brief flickers of light in God's dream?

Uh...Um... No.
Then I'm stumped... You're not upset about the brief flicker of light comment, are ya? It's a compliment in a pantheistic, cosmotheistic sort of way.

You are here because you took off your clothes, dipped yourself in honey and gold glitter, and went running down Bukit Bintang yelling, "Look at me! I'm a Golden Statue of Hanuman!
Oh. Well... the food here still sucks.

The Human Sponge

A Da Crow Production

Many of his friends had super powers like flying, or shooting bolts out of their hand and even one of them had the ability to teleport from one place to another. Among the team of superheroes, his power was the least envied. As The Human Sponge, he had the ability to absorb the emotions of people nearby and make them his own. To a point of actually forgetting that what he was feeling did not originate with him.

While his fellow crime fighters fought evil by hurling bolts of lightning or with amazing displays of strength, The Human Sponge could only sit next to the villain of the day and soak up his festering rage. Needless to say, when the weary band of caped crusaders returned to their secret lair, Sponge was not very good company.

There were even private discussions of replacing him with Paper Towel Man (who had the same super power, but was disposable). Thankfully, the problem was solved when Jesus joined the team. From that day on, The Human Sponge was just a sweetie... except around money-lenders.

Then he could be kind of a dick.

Octopus Balls

A Da Crow Production
Last year i was in Cambodia. This was my first visit to Phnom Penh and the cliche "Sea of Humanity" was never far from my mind. At times it was so often in my consciousness, it crowded out other cliches like "never kiss a prostitue on the mouth".

Anyway, there are alot of people in Cambodia. Amd one day, while walking thru a crowded market place, I found myself thinking that every one of them has a story. Each individual in this endless teeming throng has experienced joy, heartache, success, failure, fury and despair. They've all struggled with love, money, family, friends, illness and death. Just like an actual sea contains an endless array of living organism, this "sea of humanity" contains unique, poignant, hilarious and tragic stories. Which is when I realized, my true purpose in life, my true calling is to be a fisher of stories. And all I need for bait is simple curiosity.

Armed with this insight, I walked up to an old, prune faced woman, at a seafood stand, and asked her if she enjoyed her work.  She looked at me with a toothy grin and said, "Indian?" I said, "Yes." She said. "How can your people be so incompetent that they need almost 330 million GODs...?".
"You have the elephant god, the peacock god, the one with 3 heads, the blue one, and the one with the snake and....she went on and on".I replied dumbfoundedly. "I guess we're really just a large and religiuosly frightened society that we need so many Gods to lean on". 

She laughed and said " You try my octopus balls.. very tasty and good for real balls." And so I did.
And we went on sharing tales of our childhood, families, her marriage and children and how her husband lost both his legs while drunk and running butt naked in a minefield.

Afterwards, I realized i've learned a powerful lesson. In order to succesfully fish for stories, you need more than curiosity. You need octopus balls.

SWAMI RAMASHAMALAMADINGDONG

A Da Crow Production

A MESSAGE TO MY DISCIPLES

from DEATHLESS GURU, SWAMI RAMASHAMALAMADINGDONG

In my former incarnation, I passed beyond the state of Savikalpa Samadhi into the rapturous bliss of Nirvikalpa Samadhi. Shortly thereafter, at the age of four hundred and fifty six, I let go my body and released my consciousness into the swirl of infinite, uniting with the primal divine.

In 1984, my essence reincarnated into an orthodox, blue collar Indian family in Taman Petaling, Klang.

Since then, I’ve been suspended from high school twice, gained alot of weight, performed indiscriminate bed-hopping, smoked a bunch of reefer, gargled with bourbon, and currently not talking to my college mates (not my fault, honestly).

So, now that you’re all caught up, I need to ask why have you not come to find me oh' faithful disciples? Wasn’t that the plan? Well, no biggie. Holy water under the bridge. (Ha Ha Ha).

I just wanted you to know I’m now in Kemaman, managing a team of men performing service jobs for a cruel and greedy and not to mention filthy rich corporation. Feel free to drop by and worship the ol’ radiance, Swami Ramashamalamadingdong. Maybe we can start a religion. I could sure use the tax break.

Fridays are a little tough as it’s the weekend here and most countrymen are busy praying or at least pretending to in order not to get trapped in an animosity within their own people. Saturdays are fine as long as it is after my movie time in the neighboring state. (Also, after my nap please)

Call my loyal assistant Nizar and request for a drive on. Please don’t tell him I’m a perfectly realized spiritual being. He is not ready to accept the truth, which is why, out of kindness; your swami pretends to be a pampered, short tempered, grouchy schmuck in the office.

Om

The Dream

A Da Crow Production

The Dream

I'm in a cemetry attending a funeral. I'm not sure whose it is. But it's definitely not my mother's as she was there.
Alive and well. We leave the funeral and head back to an old house which is unfurnished and cold.
There is no food there. I leave my mom there and head out to a supermarket of some sort to shop for food.
I then find myself shopping while holding a baby in my hand. The supermarket is run by young people They play rock music too loudly for a supermarket and seem to be having a good time. I keep losing the baby. Putting it down and forgetting where i put it. I select two items and head to the check out counter where i'm told one the item, looks like a a loaf of bread, is too expensive. I yell at the check out girl i don't want the loaf of bread, and then realize i've lost the baby again. Thankfully i find the baby and but then decide i can't leave my mother in an empty house, so i hurry back and bring her home to my current house which is equiped with all the amenities.

My Analysis

The funeral depicts my inauthentic self. The self that has been conditioned by parents, culture and environment to survive by whatever means necessary. It is a frightened angry thing which i'm realizing is not my true identity. My mother played an important role in it's formation. I take her to a barren place because i'm not able to confront nor integrate her influences into my consciousness. The baby is my authentic self.
The essential soul that exists before the conditioning, before the formation. I am alone responsible for that self's well being and am constantly abandoning it in favor to the illusory comfort of the false self. The supermarket is filled with food, music and youthful energy which symbolizes the wisdom, creativity and vitality that nurtures the soul. There is a high price to pay for these things. It is the price of freedom. I balk at paying that price. Finaly, i retrieve my mother and bring her back to the nice house, which means i'm ready to bring her influance into my life up to a conscious level.

Conclusion

My wakeful thinking is not drenched in metaphor, therefore the dream must have originated from eternal source of compassionate wisdom, or i shouldn't indulge in 3 tablets of antibiotic with espresso before i got to sleep.