Music Photography Poetry Writing

April 11, Oh Well 1.1


This week’s playlist is called “Oh Well”. It’s made up of new and old artists, mixing genres, blending sounds, brought together with a chill lounge vibe, all coalescing together to give off the impression… Better luck next time. 

This is accompanied by a poem titled “Oh Well”. 

Click here for this week’s playlist. Oh Well 1.1

Oh Well By: Ashish Seth

A broken umbrella in a monsoon drizzle 

Cold coffee and a bowl of soggy cereal

Oh well

Rain dumping buckets of double entendres on your head

A forced feeling of surprise to get a reaction from a friend

Oh well

The highlight of the day a vague sigh in a bed 

That report was nothing to brag about but you milked it anyway

Oh well

Single serving quotes on Instagram posts 

Cars broken down with the motors still running 

And single serving K cups of caffeine jolts 

Sped up sirens and sleepless nights hoping

You never really had a chance

Oh well

The chances had you is the story you tell

Oh well

Oh well

Oh well
Ashish Seth

Philosophy Photography Writing

Jan 9, Shadows in Snow


Kobe silhouetted against perfect crisp white snow, under an orange glow of a street light. Looming below him, his mysterious life companion, his shadow.

All of life is a struggle to shine a light on our shadow selves, to define that part of us that acts covertly behind the scenes, with motives more genuine and true and real than we care to admit, too afraid to realize or prescribe over as a product of intent.

– AS

Vignette Writing

Old Boy

By morning, the little light of the rising sun painted the room a dull monochromatic blue. And the sheets. And the carpet. And the rows of books stacked in rows of two on the dresser. On the cabinet. On the desk where the computer hummed sleeping. The yelp sounded from down the hall. The dog sat, dirty paws from the 4 AM call. He heaved, his pink tongue hung out and his belly gestated in and out. And his face, which used to be brown, was faded to a white, the color sucked away with time and worn out.

I heard his yelps that grew louder as I realized my own urge to urinate. And I got out of bed. And I went downstairs. And I opened the door. The damp, moist spring air. Chilled frost on the sliding windows. The morning light threw a dark monochromatic blue on the wooden fence of the backyard. The dog hopped out and down the steps into the grass. He trotted to the middle of the plot and stood wide. He urinated a stream that sprayed at parts. When he finished, he began to roam the frost-ridden grass, licking at leaves and drinking the muddy water accumulated at the slope of the backyard.

I slid the door closed and let him have his time. I poured myself a bowl of cereal, sat down and ate my early breakfast. He’d been asking to go out more frequently now. Sixteen years old for a dog is a milestone. Yesterday I dug out an old photograph from the dresser beside my bed. I put old relics and secrets in there. It was all the way at the bottom, past my high school student cards in which I still had baby fat in my cheeks and looked tubby. His photograph was nestled there all neat and tidy, unlike the mess of everything else.

There was so much color in his face back then. So much brown under his eyes and on his head. His muzzle looked soft and his snout still wet. I guess all things get worn out as they age.

I finished my cereal and put it in the sink, then heard the muffled yelp and let him in. He shook and shivered and then went to his carpet and before he sat down, he walked around on a spot in a circle a few times to find his groove and then nestled down and curled close to gather warmth. I sat on the sofa beside him and watched the clock. Momentarily he raised his head and panted heavily. I brushed my hand on his head and he nodded to acknowledge it then put his head back down and I waited again. A few minutes later he got up and went to his bowl and drank some water, taking pauses to take a breath and he drank some more.

I went to the sink and filled a glass of water and then I walked to his bowl and filled it up to the top. He drank half of it and then some more and went back and curled up next to the sofa that I sat on. Minutes passed and I lay down on the sofa. He eventually settled and when I heard slow and steady breathing, I got up and crept up the stairs to the bathroom and urinated.


In the evening, my parents were going off to someone’s marriage. All my peers were getting married. It was the thing to do. I suppose every age comes with an instruction booklet, every life with a checklist.

My father stood in the hallway, in between my brother and I. We were seated opposite each other, me on the stairs, my brother on a brown ottoman. I had a tired face on, one I put on because it was easy. My head in my hands. I had a lot of marking stacked on my desk upstairs.

“Why do you look like Devdas?” asked my father.

Devdas. He was referring to the tragic lover Devdas who died filled with unrequited love, who drunk his sorrows away. It was an Indian classical tale.

“Just tired.”

“Don’t be tired. You’re at a young age.”

Young people can’t get tired in the eyes of old people because every complaint out of their mouths is an insult to an old person wasted youth.

Then my father slapped my cheek lovingly with a wide smile.

“No matter how old you get, I’ll always love you like a child.”

I smiled and scratched the back of my head. My father went over and grabbed my brother’s right cheek and squeezed it. My brother pushed him away, embarrassingly.

“Stop it.”

My father stepped away and paced the hallway, a smile on his face, checking his clock. The light was dimming outside. Clouds were dispersed, the blue of the sky fading to darker navy. The light that shone into the living room was a monochromatic blue. The hallway was quiet. We all waited for my mother to finish her prayer and come downstairs so my parents could leave and their sons could close and lock the door.

My father spoke.

“This shirt, you know how old this shirt is?”

“How old?” I asked.

He turned his head and looked at the ceiling and thought, the thumb and index finger of his right hand squeezing the fabric of his brown dress jacket, savoring the feel.

“Ten years. I got it in 2002-2003. Eleven years now. Last time I wore it was a wedding. I forget who.”

“It’s too big on you now,” said my brother.

He turned and looked at my brother, a smug smile on his face, strutting on the spot.

“Guess how much I got it for?”



“I don’t know?”


“Why don’t you just tell me?”

My father looked at the shirt and felt its fabric. The color was a dark brown. It didn’t look old at all. It looked neat and consistently pressed.

“Around two-hundred and thirty dollars. That was the original price. I bargained it though. They brought it down to one hundred and seventy. Plus there was a sale going on. Seventy percent off. I ended up paying, roughly, seventy something bucks for it.”


“How many times have you worn it?” I asked.

“Not many,. It’s a good shirt. Good fabric,” he said.

My father called for my mother.

“What’s taking you so long? Do you want us to come up there and give you an aarti for you to come down? God!”

My mother came down eventually and my parents left for the wedding. I sat and watched some TV. I wasn’t going to work today. No.

In some ways, all things lose color over time. That’s a truth. Eventually we’re all just fossil fuels for future generations, preserving ourselves for a longer passage through time with, frequently changing how we value things when we lose the things we value, in order to value something else, in order to convince ourselves we’re content.

And it works.


August 25, Ruthless Rocky


By Ashish Seth

Photography Quotes Writing

August 12, Some Days Are Just…

By Ashish Seth

“Anger and Pain in the Subway Train” – Mick Harvey

Photography Writing

August 7, Angel Moth


I’ve decided to say what my soul sings to me. Join me on this stream of consciousness ride. It’s like a boat wafting down a river. Try not to think as you read. It helps if you let the water take you without worrying about the direction or the color of the water.

Dear Angel Moth, I have a lot to ask for;

Save the whales. Save the dolphins. Save the polar bears save the chimpanzees and gorillas and starving people in Africa with round pot bellies and bones that show through their skin, small dots of braided hair and dry fat lips and swollen cheeks hovered by darting flies taking small bites of malnourished flesh. They live in muddy huts built with bamboo sticks walled by hay with a soot smear center where they roast the food and set the fire to keep warm. Save the polar ice caps save the poor save the hungry save the ones that love first and never hate the ones that love one another save the ones that don’t need toxins and pills to love one another to feel good about each other feel good about themselves feel good about the world they live in. Save the orangutans and the Guido tan and the man in the van with the black hand who does coke deals in shady alleys in van city and Gerrard street whenever he comes to Toronto on business deals. Save the technological innovators and computer programmers and celebrity bloggers and business starters. Save the college students and the dorm room doofus and his watermelon bong and the dude with the acoustic guitar who plays that creep song on campus during exam time. Save the anti-social who gets good grades and appears humble and brags about it in a Microsoft word document on his apple computer when he gets home from a day of avoiding well-mannered strangers with good intentions. Save the short story writer who does it for the art and the peace of mind it brings to his soul, who dreams of playing with people’s moods like a pianist with a well-tempered piano during a Beethoven symphony, who sees words as more than their definition and logical function, who sees words like musical notes placed together in close proximity to invoke a range of feelings and emotions in their readers that cannot be defined in any way but the way they’ve been placed. Save the scientist working in the university bunker who mixes chemicals to create chemicals to mix chemicals that helps save people inflicted with diseases caused by the imbalance of certain chemicals in their bodies. Save the doctors. Save the lawyers who defend the good and the bad and bend truth and create fictions that no matter how false cause a truth to happen the next day when the judgments are delivered. In India, in a slum somewhere not in Bombay or Delhi or any of the big cities is a young boy who will grandfather generations of some one just like him and eventually some element will change the line in the family and one of his future ancestors will ascend to another class and change the world. In that slum is a boy drinking chai, which he takes with milk and sugar and boils in a little hut not so different from the one that houses the malnourished starving African family described above. All these things are happening and all the time the world is moving because time doesn’t stop. Time is an organizational construct that we’ve gotten so used to that if something happened that couldn’t be explained within that organizational construct, we’d be dumb founded and confused to the point of our brains cracking. Hence time dilation and black holes. Whoops I digress, Whoopee Goldberg, whatever happened to her. I can never ever ever ever ever take her seriously after I watched Sister Act two. Anyways what was I talking about, I was letting my soul sing. All I can do is sit and ponder about the world. All the time the world is moving and there is nothing I can do but move with it. There are gross inequalities and there are GROSS inequalities but who says the world was meant to be fair? Let it be. Let it be.

And now I lapse into spiritual religious thinking and this is never good. Here goes OH GOD OH GOD OH OH OOH- God is a three-legged slum dog in Mexico City who watches little kids skip rocks across the stream in a gully, hoping to see crumbs of bread sticking out of their pockets he can steal. He creeps up and licks the bread out their pockets, and skitters away before they notice. Sometimes they notice and when they do, he realizes much too late when he hears the scampering of their bare feet in the dusty pavement. And then they throw the rocks that he must dodge but there are so many that some of them hit him, causing fresh bruises to swell over old ones. He runs under a rickshaw, sits beside its wheels and eats the piece of bread then licks at his new bruises and finally watches the street vendors to catch em off guard to steal an apple or some fruit off the open stalls. If GOD is humble and peaceful and never changing, then he’s probably been fucked over so many times he’s been driven down to the innocence of a dog trying to survive a street filed with street thugs and their rock throwing sons building experience for their future resumes in crime.

By Ashish Seth


July 30, Doggie Drumstick


Look closely, it’s a dog.

By Ashish Seth


July 3, I See It Now


By Ashish Seth


July 4, Gimme Some


By Ashish Seth

Photography Poetry Writing

May 16, Introspective Pooch


At the dawn of summer
Rest in peace, Donna Summer

By Ashish Seth