Quest...

[1] Appartus for the journey.....
Havelock island, andaman galapagos, India.




[2] vision of fulfillment....
somewhere off bay, Port Blair.

Quarantine...

"What do you mean by isolation?" I asked him.



"Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all in our age -- it has not fully developed, it has not reached its limit yet. For everyone strives to keep his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself; but meantime all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for instead of self-realisation he ends by arriving at complete solitude. All mankind in our age have split up into units, they all keep apart, each in his own groove; each one holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has, from the rest, and he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them. He heaps up riches by himself and thinks, 'How strong I am now and how secure,' and in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps up, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is accustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from the whole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money and the privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men have, in their mockery, ceased to understand that the true security is to be found in social solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort. But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another. It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have sat so long in darkness without seeing the light. And then the sign of the Son of Man will be seen in the heavens.... But, until then, we must keep the banner flying. Sometimes even if he has to do it alone, and his conduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an example, and so draw men's souls out of their solitude, and spur them to some act of brotherly love, that the great idea may not die."

~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov.

One...

Then as soon as I said that,
A breeze with a dancing sway blew
from far behind; Unarmed yet
forceful. And collected all
our invisible laughters that lay broken
in eddies and carved them all
into a huge heap of one great
moment and carried it tenderly,
leaving behind - We watching
it sail away with hands held
and our eyes sparkling like
sapphires in tangerine sunlight, our
bellies aching, our lengthy
shadows too close together
in the evening sun and
our hearts beating
as one.

Word Salads...

~ Of the three comments I made in last 24-48 hours from the roughly twenty odd I have made this year , I have been twice deprived the pleasure of watching my own comment being instantly published, something what all the blogging business is supposed to be. About. Courtesy comment moderation! Like buying a gift for oneself.

Aphorisms :

1. I not only want to say whatever I want to say at my own convenience but also I want you to say what I want you to say at my own convenience , eh pithy human?
2. Also, Say something. If I dont like it, I havent heard anything at all.
3. Also, cheeky this- Come back to see if I think you have said anything at all.

But the truth is, Hey I dont know how to handle all this, Mommy... moderation...!!

What are we writing letters to the dailies are we?

~ Next watched The Thin Red Line again , (Yes 22 or 23 times in toto). Masterly Meditation. Each shot is framed to say something important, whatever Terrence had to say after all his years as recluse. If you want to regard the whole war movie genre as a spread out essay on humanity , Then The Thin Red Line is the answer to the question that Coppola had posed to all the puny humans in Apocalypse now nearly twenty years back, which incidentally also happens to be the rough duration of exile of Terrence*. The rest are punctuations - a comma here and a semi-colon there. See that broken wailing exclamation there , thats called Spielberg!!!!

Peace.

* Some people would have seen the green white grey purples of their career in half that time.

Automne....

Autumn
is here. Your
Memories
Wither
withe
with
wit
wi
w
.
.
.

~ Picture stolen from Jesse

Aphorisma..

Thought as a function of the mind is defined by two fundamental attributes:Belief and Reasoning.
For the rational advancement of any argument (concept) both these two attributes are very important lest the argument fails miserably as it can be seen in religion( flawed belief) or feminism (skewed reasoning).

But since mind- the topographical symbol of the metaphysical self is already a bias by definition the only way by which it can ensure an argument is rational is by being aware of its own prejudices inherent in both its belief and reasoning.
And when such an argument is found online esp. in the Indian blogosphere where a good blog-argument is a measure of how well your sentences flow than thoughts , the joys are ineffable.
The argument is original , improvised , and is conscious of its prejudices all along. Ill take it any day instead of assorted thoughtless sentences being masqueraded as a intelligent popular blog to be hounded by a dozen other digressing emotions making up for the comments.
Amen.
PS--Finny, the next round be on me unless you want take us again to some gay pub which plays live tennis.

Libre...

Once someone told me
It was beyond his imagination how
such a thing as free verse
came to be called Poetry.
For poetry was a lofted thought;
a sublime articulation
of a supremely gifted heart,
to be put in exquisite rhyme and meter.

Once he finished, I just said
In case of an untoward
event, Do not panic.
Stay calm.
And proceed to the nearest exit.
Press 2 if you want to
hear the message again.

Streets..

Streets, where they have no names...

[1] Camden Market, London. The young bloke was idling with a can and on sighting the camera, snatched a placard and obliged with a pose.




[2] Traffic signals, New Delhi. I was too ashamed of myself to ask for the picture upfront, so snapped sleathily. Desparately needed the snap to remind me of so many things.

As I was showing her these assorts, L quoted this Hardy poem. Makes sense in more than many ways.

'Peace upon earth!' was said. We sing it,
And pay a million priests to bring it.
After two thousand years of mass
We've got as far as poison gas.

Michael Corleone as Ubermensch?

Another one overdue, settling all old scores--

An entire century was a single seed of thought for Nietzsche. Sigmund Freud , Karl Jaspers, Martin Heidegger, Oswald Spengler, Thomas Mann, Hermann Hesse, Rainer Maria Rilke, André Gide, Jean Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, George Bernhard Shaw, WB Yeats, one cursory glance through the streets of 20th century intellect and the influence of Nietzsche is undeniable. Some men indeed are born posthumously.

With all due respect for his gifted ability for original and innate insights, it would be unjust to credit Nietzsche alone for such remarkably widespread influence. For, he had the privilege and the premise to take his aim standing on the shoulders of giants: From Plato to Dostoevsky, he had systematically drawn from and dissected all schools and thoughts before him. What he came up with the confluence of such a comprehension was an abstract and fragmented ideology that would go on to define the direction of the 20th century starting from Freud in the early part to the deconstructive post-modern movement during its later quarter.
Anyone who is acquainted with the works of Nietzsche would know that there is no single defining principle in his thought unlike most of the schools that preceded him. In Nietzsche, one encounters abstract planks which are hard to be understood and thereby are only open to interpretations. Yet they are recognised as a salient signposts in the journey of human thought. One such major plank is that of Ubermensch.

Nietzsche alludes to the Ubermensch in the opening segment of Thus spake zarathustra and only vaguely without much elaboration . This unfortunately has lead to the often misconceived notion that Ubermensch is an ideal man superior to any other average human. A mistake even balanced thinkers like Santayana couldn’t escape. I think an easier, although agreeably a tedious attempt to understand Nietzsche’s Ubermensch is to follow his thought process through his complete works beginning from The birth of Tragedy to Ecce Homo as one single entity. But alas! Even then, just like life, all one gets is to make only an interpretation. I have, since being introduced to Ubermensch tried to peel layer after abstract layer to understand this concept at different times and from different perspectives. I saw that such efforts led me to form a core of a concept often wrapped by other changing satellite-ideas. Naturally the next step was to find the match for the concept amongst famous people known. I found weirder and obscure matches but a popular and a compelling one would come from a fiction. And the more I ponder I about him(character) and his life the more I’m convinced he has come to be the valueless nihilistic icon that Nietzsche had written nearly hundred years back. He is Michael Corleone , conceived by Mario Puzo but imprinted in our memories by the genius of Coppola in the form of the talented Al Pacino. Yes, very few men in the history of humanity for what it is now and what is to be written, would supersede Michael Corleone as an example for Ubermensch.

I initially had thought of writing this post by alternatively comparing Nietzsche’s writings with the character of Michael corleone and sketch out the similarities/differences. But it made me realise that it is too intricate and also perhaps quite demanding on the reader if s/he is not well acquainted with either or both. Hence to avoid the risk of that free floatingness I have decided in favour of just presenting a summary of Michael Corleone’s character. Hopefully this would encourage the readers to find out more on Nietzsche ‘s idea of Ubermensch and make their own judgement.I have restricted only to film and not the charecter in the book on which it was based. Again, such a task being a product of individual taste and perception naturally it precludes any logical consistency and objectivity. Therefore dear reader, proceed with utmost prejudice.

Michael is almost like any man, brought up in a protected culture, loving and loved by his family, starry eyed at the ideals , proud of his nation and privileged to make his conscientious choices. He aspires to lead himself and his wife to be into a civil domestic life. One, that promises respect and comfort that any man seeks. Yet Michael appears like a man who hasn’t made his peace. Underneath all , there is a mild air of chastened sadness around him that is presumably imagined to have come from an underlying conflict. On one hand, as an intelligent being he feels strongly for his values that define him, on the other he understands that the family he loves so much and is a part of is not legitimate and is contrary to the very values he cherishes. In this sense of understanding he departs from any average hero. He is not a Christ, Gandhi or Spartacus who symbolise a moral struggle in a value conflict with the extant inimical premises. On the contrary, Michael, born into a paradox, is in conflict with himself. He starts out as the militant attacking himself under peaceful conditions. His yearning to pull himself away from the family shall always be overcome by the fact that he is born into it. As perhaps you would expect Michael to have done all his growing years- the more he reflects about himself and the family, the more he is wants to pull away. Yet is convinced that a respite eludes him , a sad realisation which perhaps renders him so cold, mean and calculative. Unlike a few other protagonists known, it must be noted that Michael chooses to be dedicated to the family out of his own volition. He is not prodded into it. Or there is no personal identification with the pathos that he chooses to lead. Nothing he does is impetuous or precedent. Doesn’t a man hurt worst when punished for his virtues?

Soon, this split devotion to his family is moulded and given form leading him to make desperate choices and share the repercussions of the sins he isn’t personally responsible for but the ones he fully understands and vows his allegiance to. He lets go of his cherished values just like how Ulysses departed from Nausicaa, blessing it rather than loving it. As he says, it is all business. Nothing personal!! So all of this is done with disturbing ease. Thereby, he ensures the personal suffering ensuing from the change in his value system is smooth and well concealed. From his individual aspirations to his family and love, he renews himself in newer values every time he fails himself. And since each of the value is further apart from his real wish he copes by making himself emotionally inaccessible to others and more harrowingly to himself. His anger is the smoke arising off the cold ice. He never grieves in spite of one bereavement after another befalling upon him. As a being, he erases himself. One can only speculate what were his own thoughts about deserting his girl friend and marrying another woman elsewhere, losing her and then after return resuming the old relationship blithely. And in this whole process of alienation that is coupled with personal expectation to fulfil his responsibilities, he departs further away. And away.[1] From everything. Slowly he loses personal desire, value, identity. He will because he ought to. His life is slowly ushered into decadence.

But it must be noted this is only in principle but not in phenomenon. He successfully manages to evade any affective identification towards him and also he is totally in control of his acts and hence is prepared to be accountable for the consequences.

An illustration would help- in the last scene, when Kay questions Michael if he really killed Carlo (Brother in law)? He lividly raises his voice warning her not to question him about his business. This scene evokes two type of principal responses from the audience-- 1.To worship Michael as a symbol of power(and dominance) 2. To sympathise with Kay. But, mostly it is forgotten that he was the same young man dressed in an Marines? uniform who had sat and conversed softly with her at the marriage in the first scene.
Far more importantly, no one would hate him or feel for him. Although it is known that he himself who has consciously willed his destiny (or decadence) he successfully evades hatred and sympathy. That is the elegance of the whole mechanism. Within Michael, a man dies and other is born every time. With this being sustained as a means of preserving himself , his worth as a value(self) ceases and a process begins[1].

If the first part was alienation and initiation of the process, second would be the inevitable direction it had to take. Of power, will and its callousness. He has now learnt very well that the greatest juncture of life is when we gain courage to rebaptise our badness as the best in us. There is no such thing as a moral phenomenon. There is only desire and will. And the rest lies in the great ocean of contempt to be concealed in the heart. In this duties that he has reached out for himself, we see that his fears are validated again - that even a slightest carelessness on his part would mean doom to his successful efforts so far. Similar to the making of Plato’s philosopher king, he battles against everything in the world. Against unidentified enemies, against the state, against his wife (who seems be growing distant), disloyal friends, family, and most notably against himself.

This is symbolised in what I regard as one of the greatest scenes ever captured for the motion picture[2]. I think it runs for about a full minute and a half or two at the beginning of the second DVD. Michael in the heart of the senate enquiry with a failed attempt on his life behind him returns in a car to his Brooklyn mansion. It is winter in New York and one can notice the sullen skies and the overnight snow trodden all around. His car is let in and a solemn looking Michael dressed in a dark suit, a long overcoat and a bowler hat carrying a briefcase gets down and walks slowly towards the door dragging himself in heavy steps. He pauses to look at a small toy car of his child. He comes into the house moving about the study and the dining room, glancing intently at the belongings before he rests his suitcase and takes off the hat. Finally he stands before one of the rooms and finds Kay absorbed in tailoring. The background music is aptly kept minimal. Not a single word is uttered.

It is the pain and the possibilities that adds depth to the character of this scene. Bound to his family, he realises the ultimate of all the truths that in spite of everything, he is alone and doomed to be prepossessed in fundamental doubts. The ones he cant share with others or make peace within himself. At this juncture, he supersedes his desires as responsibility/duty into an abstract attribute, beyond good and evil that takes control and care of him passively into the future. It all comes naturally now, with no emotion or thought underneath. There is no family now, it is him and a world that wants to be without him. And the consequences.
Not everyone, I just want to wipe off my enemies, that is all. Even if the enemy is supposedly his own brother he is pushed aside, mercilessly. A demonstration of exercise of will naked without any form of draped morality. Or even pretension of. He survives. His family survives. But in his efforts to survive he has created a world of its own new values, successful and productive to many lives but built on personal losses, including his own -- his children and family as his wife separates from him. Now,expectedly, The apollonian is slowly parted with to make way of growing Dionysian.


The criminally underrated third part is completion of the harmony[3] . With age and failing health Michael has grown soft. The powers are distributed and fragmented throughout in return for much sought legitamacy. He is shown to be socially humorous, something he wasn’t before( I was listening to Tony Bennett songs). It is all about reminiscing and a Dionysian accounting himself for the past within. He understands his acts- the inevitability and responsibility of it all. (remember the Pope’s words it is only just for him to suffer) But still he is neck deep in the consequences of his own making. He continues in another conflict to complete the promise he made to his father and also unable to restrain his own need for security and power. As he remorses (not repent) for his deeds, he tries to-- cut off his children from his business , mend his relationship with his wife and for the last time he takes one final half hearted plunge at more power -all small steps to pave way for his descent as he himself understands very well.(The more I want to get out, the more they pull me in) And consequently, he ends up paying a heavy ransom for his life, the one he never owned in a full sense anytime. He fails to protect his daughter and his son does not share the lineage of his dreams.

Understandably, for Michael life has come full circle. It is here one might start identifying with his futility and take him for a version of a tragic hero.I think casting him into the mould of tragic hero would be imposing a self presumptous role on his life, a life that has not been open to us in the first place.Although his life has been tragic in a sense there are huge issues that separates him from a conventional tragic hero.
One could easily as well imagine Michael to be taking his son to a baseball game on a Saturday noon or retiring as a senator too dignified to use a walking stick in public. But then, knowing Michael, he would have known well at the bottom that he had more to offer and effect world better. And still, the irony of it all is that if given the choice he still would have been compelled himself to choose the life he did.
Again and again. Eternally. because that is what makes his pain, glory, legacy, himself.

The concluding shot is a deserving tribute-a frail, dust-beaten image of the old Michael Corleone stooped in a chair, open to the sun, slowly falls unto the earth lifeless; him a moral idealist, son, brother, lover, father, and above all Don corleone, breathes his last - lonely and alone, resigned and trodden like a common man. He has lost his father, brothers, wives, friends, mother , daughter and the grand empire he constructed, in fact everything that he ever valued. He has no more to offer, accept, refuse or bargain. His entire life has amounted to neither individual glory nor personal love that could be cherished. He is not a successful hero , not even a failed martyr. Yet he has changed the world around him irrevocably as such and given every possible chance he would continue to do the same. And In that-- he has transcended himself, history, and humanity thus transforming himself into an idea, into an abstraction , into Ubermensch.

At the end, despite everything , what he represents beside a caution is hope and power of will and a constant attempt to be better eternally against everything, however futile that such a venture is in itself, that being the nature and the inclination of us all as humans , in different shades of desires and varying resources at disposal he becomes the essence and embodiment of humanity.
That is the tragedy and the beauty of it all.

Where you see ideal things, I see what is --
human, alas, all-too-human. I know man better.
~Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo

[1] It is this process that Coppola has beautifully captured on the film. Notice the lack of subtitles in the restaurant shooting scene for Italian but when Michael is in Italy subtitles are used while he speaks to Apollonia’s father . It is this smooth flow in transformation in values that Nietzsche alluded to so abstractly.

[2]That scene is unbearably haunting. The first time I watched it I was too occupied with the story and missed it under my nose, but the second time around I was almost choked. Every drop of ink spilled from Freud , Mann, Sartre, to Camus, et al has been so gracefully captured in one cinematic moment. Beside its conceptual bearings it not only shows how coppola has understood the character of Michael but also is a stamp on Al Pacino’s talent. In my view only two actors could have pulled it off as convincingly Al Pacino did- Herr Humphrey Bogart and that cute Cossack named Sean Penn. The latter perhaps would have needed a tighter director. The scene also is an excellent reference for film techniques, for e.g. lighting and sound , music. Et al. Pure mad genius.
Trivia -Coppola suffers from Bipolar affective disorder which my friend considers as a role of living a playful god and pained human in one life.

[3] Although not widely agreed, I’ve never felt the series would have been complete without part 3. The scenes in the third part are in a unique way mirrored with the first-The function, hospital scene, the conversations(with Kay, Mancini, his son Anthony with his own in part1 ) the assassinations. Etc.


PS- Having not said all and with the length of the post, I am not quite happy but the Glasgow London train doesn’t run indefinitely.

Fly and Flow...

For N, sweet cousin, who turns a tender 20


Night‘s dream is
a day uncoloured,
For a butterfly
What world lies undiscovered?


Green be the
wings of the heart, will
be the dye of the dreams.

lose no hope, flow to fly
be brave
flirt no regret, Fly to flow
be just.

Pasta-Blog...

How to cook a blog about writing pasta just when you are tired from a long day and have 30 minutes to eat something and get to the squash court. Yes how? Lets see.
Start boiling the pasta (preferably either fusilli or spirali) in a mildly salted water. While it boils, you refresh yourself, a quick shower would be handy. Also, sort out the work stuff n other routinities like- listening to answering machines, checking mails but remember no replying , no calling back etc so make sure whatever you do finish it all by 6-8 minutes. Then quick-chop a shallot and few pieces of garlic and shallow fry them in a pan in either butter or PUFA oil based on taste(or weight rather).Note: Start melting the butter as you chop the shallot; saves time. Add the cheese (preferably either parmesan or mascarpone) salt and pepper as you stir along. If you really want it more tastier you might want to add crushed thyme and finely chopped lettuce.
Drain the pasta and mix it thoroughly with the sauce (Bolognese would be better) and the fried mixture.
Mamma mia!! There you are . Shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes even if you are a snail. Go on now, eat it.An apple juice or banana smoothie would help in pushing it down splendidly. Now,go squash it all boy.

PS- If you are really in the mood, you can try a sprinkle of white wine on.






Fusilli tricolore before mixing with the sauce. Grated cheddar used for cheese.

Charm and Curse...

As Promised,

Mostly, rain carries no meaning . But spend sometime about a rain and you realise how it can evoke a montage of memories.

It is raining outside now, not your typical rain but a type of light intermittent drizzle that just lets the land dry up before gently wetting it again. Sort of unfathomable mind game. The wide tarmac is variably patchy and the planes are wetted by the intermittent showers, the staff who appear as random bright spots in their water-resistant fluorescent jackets continue to work ceaselessly. A distant stretch of young trees take up the furthest horizon as they seem almost touching the heavy grey sky. Through the soundproof windowpane, the whole view looks as a snapshot of a farther heavenly world. Of all the rains, it is this type, which often reminds me of P.

I’m lazily tossing about the couch and watching P washing the dishes, her back facing me. She moves nimbly handling the dishes and checking the cooking in between, and of course she is humming all along. She is wearing an old green top and a faded baggie jeans. The back of her top reads in bright white, ‘Hi, I’m back.’ Strangely for reasons that I cant immediately identify the whole frame - The familiar kitchen with its gas stove and side basins, well arranged rows of pots and the dishes,with P amidst all with her back facing me, unsettles me a bit. May be It is because we are meeting for the last time and I’m never going to see that charmingly witty top again. We are at crossroads, we have made choices that are unlike. We are waiting to utter our farewells. A Dylan sings on the tape as if he was in the room with us-

‘You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last.
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast.’

Some of the planes have took off and the lounge is bit less populated now. Drizzles have eased off for the moment but the weather continues to be overcast. It’s a funny thing, the weather in this part of the world. I often wonder how such a inconsequential trivia elsewhere plays such an important role in our lives here. It’s the weather which controls everything; weekdays, weekends, going out, staying in, even our mood and emotions. We are at its total mercy. Aren’t we?
A few more flights are announced by what is a familiar female voice by now; My flight is not announced yet. I think I could do with one more drink.

Between her busy chores, She catches me looking at her and smilingly asks the eternal feminine question 'What'? And I reply almost instantly, the eternal masculine answer, ‘Nothing’. We get back to our acts reflecting to ourselves the meaningfulness of the meaningless conversation. We are young, we can afford clichés; in talk, in thoughts.I suppose.

I’m at loss of words whenever I want to describe what exactly we shared between us. We shared a lot of interests and obviously spent quite a bit of time together. Needless to say , we were mutually attracted. Yet, for some unbeknownst reasons to both of us we never took it further. I think it is a late teenage trait to hold on to something special in any form than nothing at all thus unwanting to disturb the balance of the whole context and its consequence . Besides, we had met when we both were in the varying stages of other relationships. She had left behind a guy who was crazy about her and wasn’t sure what to do with him and I had started going out with S. So in many ways, somehow it was best to be passive and let things just be. Looking back now, I think the passion could have been love and deep down perhaps we knew it but just didn’t realise the meaning of it all, we simply didn’t know where to lead it? And how?

The clouds have thinned out a bit and have begun to spread. The day consequently, has become brighter. I hear my flight announced and gather to check in. Something inside me feels a bit better and before I can actually lay my finger on what it is, it has vanished. In the queue, I run into the couple who had accommodated me in their table at the busy bar. He reminds me of his offer to take me flying over the lakes in his double seater aircraft, the photo of which he carries fondly in his wallet. I thank him again and assure him that once I’m less busier I shall definitely visit him. Have a pleasant journey. Thank you. Seated in my window seat I notice the showers have started again.

There are few moments in all of our lives that we anticipate with so much anxiety, split in two minds, unsure if we really want to go through it or not but eventually we realise we were a part of it only after it has gone past.And we cant do anything about it. I think I can definitely count our farewell as one such moment.

Throughout the lunch and the tea we both are sensible , enforced of course carefully avoiding important questions about future and relationships etc. And as we near our farewell, we both display an artificial air of pleasantry that all the good education prepares oneself for. I am feeling heavy in the head and hot in the neck, I cannot think straight yet I am saying the right things with a plain face. I can sense that she is going through something similar if not the same. As we hug and are about to leave I do something so uncharacteristic of me yet something which I’m not ashamed of .Or will be. In one impulsive motion, I draw her close and hold her tightly against me and kiss her as hard as I can. She kisses me back furiously, breathing into my breaths. It all ends faster than it started. We quickly pull back. I have almost lost my voice while she sighs a red beetroot 'take care'. We bid adieu. Outside, as I walk towards the gate trying to collect my thoughts, I notice my bike showered in a gentle drizzle. The one that I don’t pay any special attention but later would be haunted by tantalisingly forever.

After so many more rains that have become waters and flowed under the bridge, the whole thing still fills me with a sense of unbearable heaviness that often ends in a deep sigh whenever I think about it. Mulling over it now, I think we had to part in the midst of something special developing which we both could only sense but had no time and space to identify and articulate into a feeling. Or speculating contrarily, we would have lost the charm with more time and ended up being ordinary. Or perhaps it was just the mindlessness that is so often blamed upon the notorious vagaries of the youth. Regardless of all that, What made it so special is that we never found out and obviously never will. Coming to the kiss, I think there was profound anger in that kiss and a fair bit of helplessness . So dangerous is any kiss in itself, I’m glad that this particular one did not progress further to anything that would have been fairly easy to comprehend and classify. What the whole episode taught me was to play the game at any cost, because if we don’t, we may ensure that we dont lose but we also thereby ensure that we don’t win either. I hope she had found it equally enriching and has made the best of her promising life.

After an hour or so, in a different country the rough screech declares the landing. The sun is shining cheerfully and the air is full of enthusiasm. The passenger next to me makes the inevitable remark, ‘Isn’t it a lovely day’ ?
That’s the tragic part of such lovely days. The feeling of being such a lovely special day would be repeatedly remarked throughout till sundown that it ends up as quite meaningless and banal. In that sense, although it is very refreshingly lovely now, sooner the day would be not as lovely.
So , I usually do what I do with the first such comment; I take one more look at the day slowly: the bright sun burning in the azure sky between the milky white stratocumuli, the shining air planes taxiing about and the bright light ricocheting off the car hoods in the valleys of nearby parking spaces. Then, having digested it all, I slowly reply turning to the gentleman, 'Its marvellous'.

His face lights up as if a million stars have exploded inside him.

PS~ I suppose this is the corniest Ive been on here.Drafted sometime last month in transit, edited later.

Berets wearing blue collar..

Atop one of the peaks, Lake district.

Randomers...

I usually don't do such posts but the following interesting bobs were a part of one of those lengthy e-mails written today, just thought Ill share them here as well.

[1] The hemingway's sixwords- Learnt about it from Sashi's blog and spent a few minutes thinking about it while biking. Came up with this one-

Epitaph- Wanted all : Cake, Icing, sex.

The brevity exercise reminded me of a particular series of crisp and no-nonsense telegram from Nehru to his father. Just a bit background : Both Jawaharlal Nehru and his father Motilal were well known for writing lengthy letters to each other. But when Nehru was having a frolicky time in Cambridge he made sure most of his communications to his father was a sweet n snappy telegram/s-

money.

Now surely you cant beat that? How many high street stories you can find in the word is left upto your imagination.

Nexty is today's Gaurdian Blog ( they can hit it grand once in a while in between most other nonsensical attempts).So the tuesday tea time question was....
Turn on books? and Put off books?, kindly read the blog to get the whole idea.

[a]For my conscience, I would be attracted to anyone reading a Finnegan's Wake. And I mean anyone, Man, Woman, God, Ghost.
and
[b] No put offs, Whatever may be the weight and the wisdom of the book, after all a book is still two dimensional.
So help me God.

Love and Lies..

Last Tuesday near
embankment,bumped
into an ex; Same
smile, same hair
Same old pair of jeans.
I’m sure
She thought the same
about my shirt. My shoes.
Even my deodorant.

After exchanging smiles,
surprises and pleasant
remarks about appearances,
We set out for a
drink in a nearby pub.

She is married now, to a banker;
She works part time designing
and attends Spanish and salsa.
She went on a skiing
holiday to France recently.

Is she happy?
She is she is!
But she doesn’t
look in the eye.


And Yes I still set the alarm
for thirteen past six, and yes I still
have only carte noire for coffee. Yes yes I still
don’t wash my socks and just
throw them away after
Use.

Did I find anyone special?
Well yes, Now
and then.
She curves a
hesitant, all knowing
smile.

After some such talk
and a shared bill
We part
with goodbyes, another type of
smiles, promises; all
suitable noises.

We have moved on, two
old lovers, we are linked
only
by a distant love and a
thread of lies that
only we know
about each other.

We also are what we have lost.

~For FSB...because we also are what we have lost

Days turn
over and
over again.Nights
in between, carry on
as ever.

Through them all
you sift;
dropping a smile here,
shedding a tear there
older , wiser [?]

Between such beings and
becomings,
you are like an
open meadow that
stands naked
in the autumn shower,

rapturous to others but
inconsolable within.


PS ~Title borrowed of course from Amores Perros.

Autobiography of white silk..

Sea song...

Seawetsoil seawater seaair,
all become
seafront.
Seagulls
fly low cooing..
See…
kids, colours; joyous
families promenade;
seagreen, seagrey, seablue
sea strums sea music
at sea distance
see...life
Sea.

~ West Sussex.

How we own our love?

Old one, edited....

I stand before you
with a springbrewing in my heart;
we bare all,
in haste:a naked secret,
old loves, ribs,
navel, and breasts.

I free your tresses from the
grip of a cheap plastic
and let them flow
over your shy eyes
ivory shoulders, Hepburn neck…
I press your warming body, hard against mine;
and between your chuckles, moans;
I wet your temporalis,maxilla,
zygoma,with my beer beaten tongue.

In a mad dance,
I sin you, you sin me,
not two sins,
Just One…
for a small history,
only for us….

Then after a cigarette
and several turns of
the swirling fan blades,
I gaze at your Rodin head in my arms,
lost in deep soulful sleep,

I know it is only now;
I can claim you as mine
and mine alone…
When you wake up
you would start about with going
to a movie and shopping
while I just want to
laze around reading ole books.

Late summer dusks...

~Northern Lake district,Cumbria.
Late summer dusks are splendid and the weather is unbearably beautiful..., one of the best spree in recent memory.

Yellow pages...

Was looking for Zadie Smith’s White Teeth for J who has been bugging me for it for sometime now and as I was rummaging through the book hill, I found a few old and precious ones , which like many old and precious ones unlocked a prison house full of memories.
A snap and a few lines in a journal over a cup of tea would at least record the moment if not do it any justice.



~Journals, Kurt Cobain

Though the book is a capitalistic marketing of an icon I could not resist buying it. I wanted to know if he was the same person I had reckoned him to be through his songs. When I finished the book , I had realised how incredibly daft and supremely beautiful was his passion for music. The book is an excellent journey of affect through passion and how it burns you out if left on its own.

~The Diaries , Franz Kafka

Hmm the man! the mystery!
This book personally represents so much confusion and lack of direction. I remember first reading it for 36 hours flat through two nights and a day. More importantly, as you can see, it is the only book I have nicked off a public library!! I had made several positively conscientious attempts to return it back and in fact had successfully done so on one occasion but it found me too irresistible. Once after returning it I remembered how beautifully he had described the scene of waiting in a train station and wanted to read the passage again but couldn’t manage to find the book. After several weeks I accidentally discovered the book misplaced in a geography section of the library and I instantly knew two things. One-- that the book was mine and Two-- that I’m not going to heaven.
Also reminds me of reading many passages to S all through the night and how when we broke up she took it upon herself to return it back stating ‘it was her duty to return the book to its due and sole owner in spite of having to resist owning it herself ’.

The Story Of Philosophy, Will Durant

This book is amazingly cheap priced for the wisdom is bestows. I remember- Me and C bought a copy each and started the reading sessions alternating with discussions during long walks, drives and evening teas during our internship days. I’m yet to find a better primer for philosophy than this book written by the delicately humorous Durant and whole-heartedly recommend it to anyone who wishes to acquaint with the schools in philosophy.Personally I cherish my copy with all the wild and illegible scribbles and highlighting. For me and C It is a symbol of growth and a visage of what a concerted and collective human exploration means.

Invisible Cities, Italo Calvino

Who would have known this tiny self help kind of looking book would charm the world out of you ! I think I found it at the right time , just when I was developing interest in the anatomy and physiology in the life of the city, Calvino showed the beauty of metaphysics in the cities chronicling each one as a flag hoisted through the travels all across eternity. Also, it affirmed my conviction that nothing equals the beauty of the abstract. Besides, this is the copy for which I almost went to war against A for forgetting it in Italy. For you A, Yes I know its kalveeeeeeeeno and not Calvino but in return I’ve made you more professional with the book returns.

I think I should leave you with the words of Richard De Bury from-Of the Love of Books :

How highly we must estimate the wondrous power of books, since through them we survey the utmost bounds of world and time, and contemplate the things that are as well as those that are not , as it were in the mirror of eternity.

India - Border Roads Organisation....

You have barely heard of the name Border Roads Organisation as you start off on the highest motorable road* in the world. And as the ascent begins it would not escape your eye how the road has been cleverly carved through the ruggedly masculine and majestic Himalayas, widening when needed and arching into a narrow and lengthy curve where appropriate. The road undoubtedly is treacherous, but you never feel unsafe even for a moment.

The scene that flanks you beside is a textbook fairly tale image which would never fail to marvel or move any heart. You climb along the misty trails and through the progressively dropping temperature to find your lungs pumping the freshest of fresh airs. There is no civilization in near sight, only the pure white sky and the near bit of road ahead. The far distant peaks promise panorama and peace.






The drivers communicate in their own language, dippers, honks, unfathomable gestures etc all through the demanding drive. It is then you begin to realise, how hard it could be to manage and maintain the road throughout such harsh weather and uninhabitable terrain and as you continue wondering about it you start to notice heavily clothed men and bulldozers working to clear off the fresh snow from the road, often holding traffic. As you drive further higher up, the signboards marked Border Roads Organisation become more frequent guiding you through to safer futures.

Somehow as you manage through a bumpy ride on one unhealthy segment of a longish curve with its metalling worn out off the road, you are greeted to a better maintained segment with a board which reads Inconvenience is Regretted, BRO.

In a nation that is India, to find such a courteous signboard here, in this desolate corner, at an altitude of 15000 feet or so above the sea level under such rough conditions melts your heart away. As they say great deeds go into history books but its the smaller gestures that find their place in the heart.

And as I think of that road and Border Roads Organisation now, I can only infer how it is a rare symbol of what a spoonful of will and discipline can do to India. On their site Shramena sarvam sadhyam reads the sanskrit motto of Border Roads Organisation, i.e With hard work every thing is possible.

Indeed.

*Highest motorable road- Connects Manali to Leh through several passes inc, the famous Rohtang and Khardung La.

Delhi food.....

Hopeful regret...

One day
you will realise
that
when you thought
i would look
beautiful naked,
i was covered in
shame.

Adios...

summers
that
have slowly
melted
and
trickled
through
our
lips
as
wetkisses
and
sprung
into gorges
between our hearts
to drift away
as a warm
and dear memory
into the seawater
of cold winter.

Jyotirgamaya.....

Asato Ma Sadgamaya,
Tamaso Ma Jyotirgamaya
Mrityo Ma Amritamgamaya
Om Shantih, Shantih, Shantih hi.

~Brihadaranyaka Upanishad

From evil lead me to good
From darkness lead me to light
From death lead me to immortality
Let peace prevail into eternity...

PS: Apropos the genius VS Naipaul - The older I get, the more Hindu I become.

Photograph snapped at a shop in Calicut, Kerala India.

slicesnapped...

say paneer, newdelhimoon, new delhi , India.

Ra...

Another sundown, Himachal Pradesh, Northwest India.

kerala..

the more i see of her, the more i havent;
the more i think of her , the more i yearn;
evenings and dreams,
rains and laughs
life and how we sing it-
a heart filled within , an
heavenly beauty
that leaves a kerala-shaped
hole in my universe.

ps: postcard to T, lashed by malabar monsoon.
kerala roadtrip , may 2006

Pain Perception...

To N,

You believe
your
pain is
the deepest
of all the pains

I believe
my pain is
never
anywhere deep
than
other many pains

That
truly
is
my pain.

Today's sundown...

Say cheese...scientifically perfect sundown at 8 pm , Northwest englland.

i pod therefore i am...

In the ears of my days
is a thunder of accomplished rivers
-e e cummings

Here we go- for the last few days all conversations seem to somehow inadvertently drift into music- from old friends to total strangers the endless ocean of a topic of music is coming up more oftener than ever again. The last one being with a cab driver who was playing his favourite CD instead of the usual fm radio. Having gone through all these talk, and not finished yet, I thought It would make sense to draw a list to reflect on my present cross-section of musical conscience for future reference.
But, as I said charting a favourite music list is like counting how many thank-yous are said in Great Britain in a minute, so I have purposefully stuck to so called main stream chartmusic, excluding other personal favourite genres like classical ,experimental and film based et al. Again, in the list I have chosen only what I call, feel based music, subject to whatever they evoked in me- memories and feelings totally ignoring music or lyrics. Although my initial list was of 25, we shall stick to traditional thirteen shall we? Ah! just look how we are growing old!

1.Something in the way Nirvana If not the best Nirvana song , the song which conveys so much feeling in a few lines. Though quite repetitive, not an inch of bore or monotony . If I remember it right, he wrote it for his first love, when he was twelve. Makes a heart swell and linger in a perpetual promise. Saudade.

2.The end The Doors I believe every man has a song to epitomise his youth. And this was mine. The enviable vocals of the Jim Morrison and underrated skills of Manzarek‘s digits makes it such a special experience. It evokes intense personal memories, meanings, loves and kisses. Popularly marked as a war song, I think a wilder and passionate love song is yet to be written . One real cleansing of perceptual portals!

3.Old man Neil Young- Have you ever walked into a place and heard a song and immediately knew it was a song you knew all along but are hearing for the first time then?
Beautifully balanced song, the best Neil young song for me, speaks for the early twenties feeling ie the struggles to transform from college to ground reality so perfectly, reminds me of all the wise wisdom heaped on by age from dad to other mentors who treated me like a man when I wasn’t one yet. I shall never forget this song, even if I’m dementing.

4.Love will tear us apart Joy Division- This song is the symbol of that unique Joy Division rhythm , I can sit and listen to it endlessly, it has that vague sense of loss and pain of love, masterly lyrics along with the sound adds an distinct aura, which often makes it apt as a background score in movies esp. in between conversations.

5. I remember Damien Hirst - Marvellous song to come out on a debut especially the characteristic change of the tempo; very passionate yet easy on the ears; perfect song - a haunting tune about ? an one night stand or a fleeting fall in love, better than any James blunt any day. Yes , Paper mache!

6.Things have changed Bob Dylan- Well any Dylan song is supreme, I don’t think we, the tax paying blogging, flickering post-modern masses had a real poet since Dylan and this song proves it with its special fragmented lyrics and the wistful sense of disconnectedness. I reckon this song is like a whiskey which gets better as you grow old.

7. In the manner of speaking Nouvelle Vague My idea of perfect romantic song, lovely voice, I heard it first in a party and chased it up, now am a huge fan following every move ardently, very mystical melody, reminds me of certain N's ivory shoulders.

8. Heard it through the grapevine Marvin Gaye- The pain is never been so melodiously captured in a song form before, well conceived and composed, if you haven’t listened it before you got to. Marvin Oh dear.

9.Dear catastrophe waitress brand Belle and Sebastian- Very ethereal and vivid lyrics, I try to imagine different cafes and coffee bars when I listen to this, and conversely try to play it in my mind when I am being waited. Very special in narration and tune.

10.City of London Mekons This song is so unique, it says so much and nothing at all, I’ve not heard of any other song that captures the morose monotony within the heart of London better. Perfect song to listen to while having tea looking over Thames through a window.

11. Electrical storm U2 Perhaps the most underrated U2 song , bit techno-acoustic and jarring at times but Bono’s mesmerising voice is haunting, one of the brilliant black and white videos done for a song. Would be effective on a long drive on m6 in a summer evening.

12. Everybody’s talkin Harry Nilsson It’s a funny song. Very few songs can carry a movie on its tender shoulders and this one has done it so perfectly that it has grown to become the symbol of midnight cowboy. Imagine getting away with vom waonwaoon waaoon in a title track and through out the movie, as I said funny. Lively memories too.

13.When my guitar gently weeps George Harrison This is the song which adds meaning to music, I bet thousand arctic or Antarctic monkeys playing thousand guitars eternally cannot reach to an iota of the soul in this song, to me the best beatles(inc solo) song ever, slightly better than the universe by Lennon. Anyway better than that hugely overrated 3rd grade school essay made into a Lennon song.

Weirdincident...[1]

Weirdincident...[1] also called, When a naked woman waves at you in the night?

Lets see how what happened one night late winter. I was carrying a cold around and you know how a head carrying around the cold feels, awfully heavy and weird as if you are pregnant in your head, a vague debilitating feeling which prompts questions like how many cartoon characters you know that have committed suicide? Under such difficult circumstances, S asked me for a drink down the pub, though it was a weekday given my state, I thought it wasn’t a bad idea at all and as expected we had a fairly good time but were unable to escape darkly futile detours like how many cartoon characters we knew that had committed suicide? But by and large it wasn’t too bad at all and after returning I went straight to bed only to be awakened by my head crying itself in pain at 3 am so naturally I went to the kitchen to pop a couple paracetamols and as I peered at the darkness through the window I saw a bare-naked glowing feminine form, lovely and pale, smiling and waving at me, given the state of my head and the drink inside it I waved back impulsively without sparing a thought and duly went back to bed only did when I realise the nature of the incident and returned back to the window to find nothing , no man or woman waving , not even a sausage; oh the old mind playing tricks or the drink or the cold or perhaps a combination of all, I buried myself beneath the linens of a cliché and went to deep dark noiseless sleep and when I woke up P was smiling her lovely smile and making me a fresh coffee, morning I wished back and during the course of conversation casually remarked about the incident and she first thought I was taking the mick out but then scoffed saying she had found a marble underneath the bed last night to which I promptly replied mine were fine the last time I checked and then I asked her two questions - 1 How many cartoon characters she knew that have killed themselves? and 2 Does she believe in ghosts? She disdainfully dismissed in one stroke of feminine genius saying ah you should watch your drink , but the cheeky girl she is,worried within that someone was trying to seduce me, had walked all the way through to the security office which led to the cctv footage of the night in question to be scanned frame by frame and eventually culminated in me discovering in the newspaper the following day that some religious cult was hanging around in the vicinity of my backyard having orgies at late night; I, of course was filled with a deep sense of regret to have missed the opportunity that would have gone directly up to the top five of the 100 things about me chartlist, oh what a miss,I had pictured myself proudly saying gentleman and ladies, ask not what syphilis did to you , ask what you did to the syphilis? and how you did it? but for now I just pray and hope at nights standing before the window not minding the three cameras that have been newly fitted for an omen.
So dear reader, kindly do something more than waving back at the naked woman who waves at you in the night from outside a window for these days not everyone can have the chance to be in an orgy , Heck ! How many cartoon characters you know who were in an orgy anyway?

Multicolour Multicultural Britain?

Camden Market, London.

A Thank you to the kind shop-fellas who glady obliged.

There goes another novel....

~After all the hunting, have finally laid my hands on this precious photo of my two personal Gods: Marilyn reading Ulysses. A sublime symbol of what God and Man are best capable of.

Now, as the frame adorns my study wall, I contently sip my tea marvelling at its beauty, split between my admiration for Ulysses and adoration for Monroe, telling to myself, how it was all worth the time and quid. To borrow Monsieur Balzac, Yes, there goes another novel....

Dusk...

Dusk...

~Yet another Hyde Park sunset; a serene feeling beyond the confines of any medium.

Rose...

Her name is Rose marie Higgins. The wise may feel otherwise but No, its not okay to call a Rose by any other name. Two sugars including.
PS; Lunch time flashlog.

Being PC...

a political/personal detour:
If asked to choose one man in contemporary politics who has impressed me the most, it has to be undoubtedly him.He could be best described only by borrowing an american term -the balls !
With all the misgivings included, he is growing more cunning by the day.
And I say Balls not in any frivolous or blasphemous sense , I say as it fits in perfectly- If you have something to say and are unable to keep it to your glorious self, you speak to the concerned and to the face; with your head held high and shoulders raised tall, and not speak to his/her back or in his/her absence.
Thats not balls, thats rationalization of self pity.
For eg, writing a blog about someone who cant defend himself or herself is not a testimonial. There is no honour in that.Absolutely none.Whatsover. Even skewed education or disturbed mothers cant be blamed for that.
For those who mistake blogs for testimonials, vide roman wisdom- latin: testis, testify, testimonial et al, you swear holding your balls in front of the involved. And say whatever you wanted , to the face.
That is the measure of your worth.

Water.....

Lets do a J Locke on water.
Think water.
Think how a sparkly drop slithers off gracefully from the tip of the tangerine leaf onto the one below , think how the ripples in a pond grow and grow into their own slow death.
Think how slimy heavywet your socks feel after an accidental rainpuddlewalk, or how the fingertips feel as you write on a moist puffedamp window pane.
Think how it is to hear the cavernous eternity of the tides roaring one after the other lying on a beach, or the tap that leaks so excruciatingly on a lazy afternoon.
Think of that watertaste on your parched tongue just after a long summer run, or think of how heavy and pregnant the evening smells just before a tropical rain.
Yes that water.
If original thought is regarded the prized accomplishment of man as a being, then water is the thought of nature. The undeniable symbol of the eternity of being and becoming.
Water is the visible form of the universe.
Think water, think life.

~6/4/06
On a Motorway.

Drinking metaphors...

This table is our couch,
the drink I buy you
is our pillow.
You lean and confide,
In this moment here, now-
I can only pity your despair.
All thought dear,
is a veneer, waiting to be
corroded by time;
all bonds are
'basically' built by bricks of emotion.

Perhaps yes, I wonder
or pretend to
and
fiddle with my glass;
In a brief silence,
I try to reach out to your pity
while you take out your cigarette.

I cant.
Do you know, I ask, the difference
between a cake and a biscuit?
……No ,
Both are 'essentially' made of same,
just , one gets harder with time and the other
softer
I utter, lighting your cigarette.

Saatchi sketch...

Rough live sketch of the statue opposite Saatchi Gallery, London.
Quite mediocre but started again after a long long time.

Milieu...

Sunshine, we all see the same sky
Looking, learning, asking the same 'why?'
-Belle and Sebastian, Song for Sunshine.

What milieus we have moved? What milieu holds us? What milieu we hold?

How we are and where we go? Sundown at the Docks, Preston, Lancashire.

Anatomy of Post-modern Relationship...

   Enter

      PUSH -LLUP         strictly prohibited

     Look Right               pull/push

           Push bar to open
                                    No U turn

Fire Exit<----          PUSH           mind the gap

    .... SLOW ....   CAUTION!               

 ----------> you are here <-----------  

 HSUP -LLUP                 No entry 

      ----> Fire Exit

     Restricted access

                      --->WAY OUT

Look Right                 No smoking

  24 hours clamping in place            hsup

                         -->EXIT

Fragile HANDLE WITH CARE            Wet Floor

Take a left after hundred yards and you have reached your destination

Pubtale...

So one such evening when you could be fairly sure it is going rain, Harry, looking into her eyes, asked Linda if she would marry him. But it was the way he asked her.
''Linda, should you say no now, someday if by the turn of events I have to face a firing squad , I shall remember the distant afternoon I discovered you''.
Unfortunately for him she said yes .
Twenty nine months later, one winter morning, Harry woke from troubled dreams, to find himself transformed into a giant horrible vermin.

Pubtales: A Short writeup we usually do in a pub/hangout while waiting for beloveds to turn up.Mostly based on the interesting people seen around in the pub.Can also be seen in the movie ' Wonder Boys'.

Perpetual ent Pilgrimage....

All the trees in the world are journeying somewhere.Perpetual pilgrimage.Remember, when we were on our way here, to this city, the trees traveling past the windows of our railroad car? Remember the twelve poplars conferring about how to cross the river?
~Vladimir Nabokov

~Somewhere abouts Yorkshire, it was a beautiful day, the sun smiled in the barenaked sky and the earth seemed to open her heart in a wishful embrace.A memory of a mood retrieved, coloured and safe-kept in the chest to cherish.

I shot this from a moving car. Yes , I could say Im getting a hang of it.

Another rider....

Another yellow post-it to be written about.
Michael Corleone as Nietzsche's ubermensch.

PS: Shameless I know, But such it is.

Popcorn papers...

Some interesting movies caught up here n there .


~Odishon.
Takisha Miike, Japan,1999

Well, it’s a Takashi Miike movie. And unarguably he is at his complex best in the odishon. The story begins rather mildly : Shigeharu Aoyama is a widower with a teenage son starting to feel the pathos of loneliness. Encouraged by his friend to marry again he seeks a Japanese woman with refined taste and a good sense of traditional values(blah!). He and his friend arrange an audition for a fake job so as to enable him to choose his prospective partner.Aoyama falls for the simple Asami and they seem to get along well. So far so good, but If by now you had heaved a sigh at its banal predictability what follows more than makes up for it.
Along with Aoyama the viewer starts to discover that Asami is not all what she seems, that she can be secretive and at times elusive and further down inexplicably eccentric until the famous climax when things turn to traumatic horrors.
The complex psychological patterns in the human development, in its depth and intensity is brilliantly captured in the second half by the use of vividly scary imagery that flows freely and unrepressed between the past and the present.The last twenty minutes of the movie , I gather has become such a legend that a special note of caution is added. The portrayal of repressed and maladaptive conflict is so naked and believable one hardly pauses to think as the movie advances to its eventful end. But as soon as you hurry to rewind the last few chapters a growing unease of anticipation grips. If, one is inclined to watch it again that is. Such is the measure to which horror is redefined.


~Carandiru
Hector Babenco, Argentina (Portuguese), 2003
Carandiru is based on the real life events of an overcrowded penitentiary in Sao Paolo.
The movie is interwoven as a collage of the lives of the brutal prisoners , their past and their hopes against the background of prison dynamics as seen by a new doctor. Although it touches upon a variety of subjects from AIDS, drugs, family issues, religion, homosexuality the heart of it reflects on the uninhabitable conditions of survival in the overspilling prison. The narration is largely in the form of snapshot peeks,but the overall theme conjures to present the prisoners both as helpless persons facing similar problems as in the society that has punished them as well as brutal criminals unwilling or perhaps unable to develop a more meaningful world view. Expectedly it raises questions around justice, crime and society? and more so specifically about punitive justice and oppression. The end is rather an issue of perspective and political interest and therefore polemical.
Photography and acting aptly support the movie. I was quite impressed how Babenco has managed to distance himself and has escaped without offering his personal judgement. At the end, the viewer is trusted to form his own opinion. Quite an emerging theme of late, amongst Latin American movie makers.

~Roberto Succo
Cedric Kahn, France, 2001
Hadn’t heard of it until I saw it. The missive would make you expect dark rooms, wild chases and free flowing ketchup with chilling music at the background. But you know the French folks, they have this innate knack of amazing story telling.* I’m sure if it was anyone else other than the French, the movie would have been an absolute disaster. Even if it was named Jason Bourne!
Roberto Succo is based on the real life serial killer who terrorised southern France in the 80s.Having escaped from a mental institute in Italy where he was incarcerated for the murder of his parents, he settles in France and is drawn towards a French girl whom he meets in a bar. The rest of the story is an attempt to peep into the identity, conflicts and copings of his character.

Torn between his new-found returned affections and his past urges to destroy, he lives and longs in new identities, clever lies, stolen cars and further ruthlessness until his inevitable arrest. The fleeting aspects dealing with the viewpoints of the police officers and the final complexities about extraditions are all well crafted.
As already mentioned, the most impressive part is the treatment. The aim is not to sensationalise but to capture the character of a deviant. Violence is mostly kept to being symbolic than graphic. The story begins with no burden of his past(and hence not prejudged) instead slowly develops from pieces put together as it moves along.The photography captures some scenic locales across France.
Stefano Cassiti as an enigmatic serial killer is superlative in that he achieves perhaps what no other serial killer portrayed has ever achieved. He is simply believable. He is no victim or martyr, he simply is another being willing to play and pay extremes, as he does it unto himself eventually.


~ 20 fingers
Mania Akbari, Iran, 2004
Ah! Quite a movie , more of a documentary sorts.Caught it quite a while back in a festival and since then it has gone on to win several awards and acclaim. That is certainly because it is so contemporary in content and narration.
Woven together within the movie are seven conversations in different settings between a man and woman as they go through different phases of relationship. The conversation although is between middle class Iranian couple in a society slowly sailing from conservatism to liberalism, it essentially is an universal depiction between any post-modern couple. The issues are multitudinous as any imaginable post modern talk can afford- from male domination, learned helplessness of the woman, individual insecurities, career vs.family to abortion, spacing of children, adultery etc.

I thought it was one of the really well thought and made movie truly staying faithful to the lives of our generation. Mania and Bijan as the woman and man are totally relatable from the very first shot. Script and photography are commendable , in fact the entire project is refreshing. And with my interest in the opening sequences , I loved the first scene. Guess it was one of the best in recent years. And of course the famous single shot sequence on the road, though a tad adventurous is well done.

The conversations are natural and free flowing to such an extent that one feels like he is eavesdropping at times. The talk is fairly balanced in presenting the perspectives but at times wanders to great ends to offer overt feminist suggestions , which I found a bit warped to my taste, but the views cannot be discounted altogether given that the context is Iranian society. The ending was rather abrupt , I suppose, I wished for a more balanced one. Nevertheless, a novel and welcome movie, the one you would want to play on a Sunday evening with a few guests around. Post conversations flow easily.

PS:And since we are here, I think Spielberg should retire or just do a woolf.That would be his greatest contribution.

*ETA :If it was possible, I would covet the mind of a french movie.

Sunday 4 pm...

Raptures of sunlight slowly swim across in a blazing trail. The world opens like a book, people become words, faces turn into meanings. How different we are at different times?

I look at you.
Your eyes look ethereal like a French movie, they just add up into a feeling I cant describe. How is that you are able to carry so many worlds within those overcast eyes ? I wonder.
Dreams in your deep eyes, whirligig of stars!

I look at you .Your hair is sprawled loosely over your shoulder. You shuffle your legs. And slowly you remove your eyes from the book and gaze at a distance; You paraphrase silence, juggling yourself with meanings and feelings that only you make for yourself.

I look at you. I sense a universe flowing through my veins, I want to run laughing loudly and release all my joy.Im just numb to my own breath.
I look at you. Im so overwhelmed at the fact that right now you just don’t have a clue how beautiful you look .

You turn and you ask What? , and I promptly reply Nothing, we get back to our deeds.
A moment is swallowed into understanding.
That is all there is to life.

Fleeting flash-fiction....

Andrea Jardine Smith, sixteen in two weeks, thought at length than she ever had and decided to keep the baby.

Whispers of rescued secrets...

Escape into fugue:
Behold this binah
Our last driedbare bone-
Our hope, our fear
How they have wagered together... weightless
wrapped in answers, no questions?
But confounded, break it never
into tomorrowcoloured heavens.

The act of wonderworship:
There are whispers, there are rumours
What influences are immoral and
what voices grow to be dishonourable?
Purpose and phrases
scarf around and hover
Patterns but, such
is the warm blood in the heart and
watercold in the river.


Unlearning aspect in Experience:
What was such joy of the smiling
nakedflower.. shivering in the aprilshower? Or that
of the tenderpainted lip
you kissed in December? To
retrieve and erase..... reasons, they
repressed-remain, as memorycrumbs
...Unbeknownst , unregistered (but of course reasons
best remain as reasons).


Discipline in Endeavour:
In the fairdistance of dark night, moonless
There is an aging
silentsplendour;effortless,a selfdestructed
preacher too
moves his hand and
all worlds tumble together
(into hope, harmony and honour). Thus,
begin all universe, unadulterated
as it abstractly apparentfloats
grows and shrinks; here
now, before and forever...

Who but,
to herself alone, she must eternally cross-refer?


~Liverpool transit
Draft edited later.

Above all do no harm...

Ever since Finny has tagged me to speak of eight things about ideal partner, I’ve been thinking in its general direction in my available spare time. And honestly I don’t have a friggin clue. Im no Jung to have accumulated the archetype animus in my mind neither do I carry around a list of ideal attributes in my pocket trying to match it against everyone I’ve come across, so in that sense I’m definitely not the right person to answer it as such.
Hence some views on relationship and on the delicate question of a partner as a species of sustainable life form have to be expended in an alternate version.

Obviously Herr Kant was naïve. No relationship is a thing in itself. You meet a person , get attracted , check if its mutual, sustainable and then give it a shot. Or you’ve got to be really drunk or dead desperate both of which of course are nice lil enriching things within themselves.

And marriage (god forbid) is just a natural sequence, not a restore point in life, so if it eventually comes to that shall have to be saved for the very last of the relationship as a tax saving formality. What wisdom do you think Mr Shakespeare LongGone was trying to pass on when he wrote that the valiant die only once? Enough, they say.

So reinterpreting the ideal as a consistently desired attribute I can share a few of my thoughts on the interestingness of the partner (yeah right, flickr term) in my current frame of mind. None of which needless to add are indispensable.

But before that,
I’m a hopeless spiteful Dostoevsky’s underground man. I don’t have values or blind devotion to any particular school unless they make a religion out of alcohol. So refined rubbish like 'to love me unconditionally and to respect me for what I am' shall not be bought or sold. Neither shall be imposing ideas, interests etc encouraged.
Ive omitted mindless profile fillers like interests- which would obviously invite answers that expose the character for e g things like 'I love travelling'. I mean Jezuuuus! who doesn’t? unless he is Kant who never left his watch, umbrella and his city behind. One of the real reasons behind his shite philosophy?
And a few others like music- all of us as humans like one or the other form of sound that during one time or the other can be remotely called music coz we all have now realised because of a certain gentleman, that without music life is a mistake. So now that both of us know we have a shared liking for the melodious music of Missy Elliot , would our relationship 'naturally' become more worthy?
And then of course desire is by nature biological, so physical form is inherent and obvious unless you are blind or buddha. Question remains of compatibility and deviant desiredness like e.g. suprasternal notch as with Mr. Almasy or in my case a lovely chin and delicate neck would settle the story, all of which understandably cant be justified in this medium.

Hence the shamelessness shall be

• A Woman. ( For now) ...just like we see them in the movies. Hopefully passionate and with a general understanding of herself and the scheme of things. Nothing spectacular. For e.g to understand that Da vinci code is an unputdownable joke book.
• With no devious agenda - Ive put this here just to remind myself; But seriously we all know that man is not yet advanced to resist the charm of a devious woman. I mean how many of us can defend ourselves if Mata Hari turns up in a mini skirt on the Piccadilly line?

Answer : none!

• Independent and original - Not like I-choose- my- own- lipstick-independent or I - also -read-Independent-Independent; Yeah- right- now-shall- we- get- on- with- it- independent. By original I mean to be innately able to form objective hypotheses based on observations.To borrow my friend’s eloquence not be a bloody software which brings us to being
• Opinionated - to hold reason as the basis of opinions and not emotions - which means in light of a rational counter- argument, be open to change it. Lesser emotions the better , what do you reckon life is? A John Lennon song?
  Answer : American John lennon or European?. Next
• Conversation- effortlessly hold and navigate a reasonably intelligent conversation in toto regardless of the premise and to know that she has held it. By reasonable I mean reasonable -- not saying mindless things like - lets agree to disagree, and a hundred other American phrases like - that’s very interesting, to each his own, all I want to say is , what is the point ? that’s so cute…etc. Then
• Humour -- spontaneous, abstract , obscure, pedantic both in appreciation and expression.
• To know at least one different language - to share and swear - take my French - hell is other people! That includes your precious partner.

Thats it I think.Well, that’s seven , then add that little Latin thing

• primum non nocere - Above all do no harm. Yes, above all.

One of the most unique memes Ive done , lets leave it here unique.

As if we had not enough , now weve got guys like Dawkins beginning to influence our life styles.

PS: This is just a silly meme post, not be mistaken anything else.

Gravitas and Hosannas....

Amongst other things , of late , Ive been described as the direct product of the high functioning inherent obsession and the absolute anarchy which supports no form of feasible life.
One evidence to support the former is how I classify my favourite online bookmarks.
The latter, needless to say is not quite simple to form a blog entry. So here goes one of my eternal obsessions i.e to classify everything.

Favourites

Academia and Academia dua : All things to do with bread, butter, bed and more. From Uni gossip to recent policy guidelines. Subdivided into European American Asian and Pacific.
Art ministry : All the causes and consequences of art and things related to art, pigments epitaph, de novo.
Backpack: Everything to deal with travelling- from the road maps, tube, travels, hotels, flights etal…
Binah: From the Kabbalah means Understanding- original, creative, meta-observations, formulations and hypothesis about anything or nothing!
Bon appetit : Culinary n gastronomic excursions- restaurants, cocktails, recipes…
Brickdom: All important sites dealing with the structure forms and evolution of architecture n other related storeys.
Constant cocktails: Frequently visited sites, e.g. wikipedia , dictionary etc.
Day2day: Stuff about contemporary urban post-modern routine- local libraries, Bills, blimey n blahs...
Department H: All history related sites reside here.
Entlany: From entertainment + miscellany- Show schedules, Shopping, online purchases - Argos, eBay, ticketmaster suchlikes...
Estate four: Obviously the media- again sub classified into print, electronic, visual Independent, Favourites(Columns, threads..)
Flats n sharps: All that is music related- radio stations, band sites, lyrics, downloads….
First love: Anything that holds the interest in the first visit shall be listed here, later either reclassified or sent to recycled bean based on utility.
Forschung: German for research - Topics currently researched online.
Inkspill : Sites about writing and literature. Writer sites, e-books, poetry sites, forums, et al….
Language et al: Obviously about languages, including origins, etymology, slang.

Links: All gadget & software links like Tom Tom Applestore etc, Think would do with some renaming.

Mails: Self explanatory.

Philosophique central: All useful philosophy arguments and counter arguments, discussion forums, trivia, including pertinent humour.

Popcorn papers: Movies grand hub! , reviews, discussions, forums, trivia and others .Again European, American, Asian.

Quarter smile blogs: Famous international and syndicate blogs - guardian culture vulture, znetmag etc.
Recycled bean: Recent urls step stored here before deletion.

Shuttersmith : Stuff about photography, personal n otherwise , tips, techniques and suchlike to further the clicking skills. Flickr, good-tutorials etc.

Two regular please: Regularly visited sites, blogs etc.

Upgrade your software: Software upgrades . Whatelse?

Cha: Sanskrit means and , to signify the old n boring category miscellany - includes rest of the universe like Sudoku , Oxfam, blah this n that.

PS: Many a thanks for those who have written to me here n over the mail. Was away and of late been manic jaunting all over. This being a brief lucid interval, shall try writing anything worthy from the million floods inside before the next wave.

Cheers