-A window ajar is a prelude in building to the joy of being limitless! That uneasiness of being familiar somehow, sometime, somewhere.......

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Troika Reviews

One of the age old norms in the college was-When bestowed the luxury of being in the bed; ill and convalescing, one must indulge in as many books, movies and music as possible to review them later for the greater health and prosperity of the brethren.

And as old habits die hard (why else you think they are called old habits?), here go a obscure few....


~Book

Portrait of an artist, as an old man: a novel


Joseph Heller 2000
Scribner fiction in UK £12.99




Joseph Heller needs no introduction. Though the title carries a rare emphasis of being a novel, it becomes clear as we sail past impeccable narration of the initial few chapters, that the book is a far from being a novel. It is put together as a clever collage of autobiographical insights that finds its way as fictionalised accounts glued by inimitable wit with his twisted semi efforts to write one final reputable novel.

In this last book published after his death, Heller speaks through his alter-ego protagonist Eugene Pota (Portrait Of The Artist), a previously successful novelist walking into the sunset of his literary winter, with too much idyllic time at hands and pride to wear, with a faithful publisher by his side trying to put forth one final piece before his farewell.

At the crux, the book deals with writer’s block and his jovial struggles to come up with an idea worthy of a marketable novel and through such pursuits he half heartedly tries to explore, Greek mythology, biblical themes and also several of his favourite fictions/lines twisting them into parodies that are often shuffled about before being abandoned. The result is a combination chronicle of his brilliant false starts interspersed with his personal takes on several things in life.

Personally he traces the uninspired writer’s world, reclusive and dull often trying to find muses in inanely imaginative things from his wife’s possible sexual biography to reflections of women in his life, The idea of Gods wife, to a consultation with his doctor and often at times tries his hand at weaving some fiction out of them. Needless to add there is a distinct sexual undertone in many such chapters.

As we move on, it is obvious his false starts are bound to loose steam ending up as paragraphs, chapters and at times just headings. However some of themes like Hera speaking of Zeus’ wives and the chapter on Isaac have brilliant sparks that bring back memories of what a gut twistingly hilarious talent he is.

But the more insightful segments of the book are when he tries on some of his favourite lines from fiction like - A beautiful woman has trouble living up to her looks for very long: Kurt Vonnegut, Last night my lord returned from the wars and pleasured me twice/thrice? with his boots on: Duchess of Marlborough or at times manages to exploit in satire some familiar chapters(or parts at least) from Tom sawyer, Metamorphosis and Moby Dick to get across his point of what a great torture writing can be?

The best theme is undoubtedly in the chapter Tom sawyer, The novelist which deals with, what Heller calls the literature of despair where Tom sawyer is re-fictionalised as a keen young american novelist trying to trace the final days of various eminent writers all over America (Mark Twain, Jack London, Flaubert, Melville, Poe, Fitzgerald etc) and across the pond (James, Dickens, Conrad, et al) only to learn about the various states of their pathological melancholia , breakdown and hopeless end. This manages to convince Sawyer to abandon his ambition of writing and to wish to become a railroad engineer instead.

Further, in the following chapter he goes on to examine the illnesses and idiosyncrasies of many writers as part of his talk to young college students only to conclude in a subtle warning veiled in humour:It is almost enough to chill the heart of the parent whose child declares the wish to seek a career as an author.

The narration when discreetly autobiographical is learnt and graceful and while experimenting with his numerous ideas is clever with flashes of his reputedly dangerous satire. This is indeed a unique book in a special genre. And for people who seek plots, mystery, meaning or perhaps even laughter, it should hold little interest for it is just a pastiche account about writing or the lack of it.

In the end, one gets a feeling that beneath all there is a unmistakable wry and the sardonic laugh at the evolution of meaninglessness into life, though perhaps not as satirical (twenty two teethed laugh) at the absurdity of war, a laugh definitely wise and subtle enough to escape a post modern conscience, a laugh perhaps enriched only by the meaning of life.

Flaky or otherwise, he has succeeded in hiding whatever he intended to hide!

+++++

~Movie

Girl With a Pearl Earring
Beauty inspires obsession

Production: Lionsgate films, Pathé distribution 2003
Director: Peter Webber
Runtime: 100 mins
Cast: Scarlett Johansson, Colin Firth, Tom Wilkinson, Essie Davis, Cillian Murphy, Judy Parfitt.
DVD: £ 5.97
Country: United Kingdom/Luxembourg

Based on a novel by Tracy Chevalier this movie is a story of Griet a beautiful peasant who starts to work as a maid in the wealthy home of the Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer and how she with her innocence and curiosity inspires the talented Vermeer, initially by assisting him and eventually by modelling one of his natural masterpieces. On an abstract plane there is a parallel and subtle exploration of the meaning and the boundaries of love {?} within and out of society in the uncertain backdrop of art.

The story is just a lovely fiction by Tracy Chevalier adding imagination to the making of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring. Young Griet begins to work as a maid in the patrician family of Vermeer to support her financially struggling parents. Although illiterate she exhibits an innate understanding of subtleties of colour and light often unnoticed by Vermeer’s own lavish family mainly made of wife and mother in law. As she spends more time amongst the paintings, the studio turns into an imaginative respite and she finds herself slowly drawn into his world which in turn, offers him a natural way out from the bauble of his kitschy family before ultimately inspiring him to paint her as the model. And all through this, Vermeer finds himself torn between a dull family and his love for true art, while she conscious of the futility of their intrigue and the class distinctions finds herself in the affections of a native butcher boy. That a wealthy patron of Vermeer’s art also starts to develop more than a wild interest in Griet doesn’t help the quagmire any bit. Sailing through such testing waters, the story moves along to capture how, held by their conviction and bound by love for art they manage to be immortalised in one of the most genuinely captivating paintings ever. Beauty as it is aptly said inspires obsession.

Scarlett Johansson as griet is refined and breathtakingly luminous at times, Colin Firth(Vermeer) although just about manages to convince himself off the lover boy image, one tends to get a feeling that a more gifted actor would have justified the silent and intriguing chemistry between them better. The familial characters manage to fulfil the demands of their role quite unremarkably. Essie Davis as Vermeer's wife is just about tailor- made for the role. For veterans Tom Wilkinson(MasterVan Ruijven), Judy Parfitt( Maria Thins/Mother in law)and Joanna Scanlan(Tanneke) it is just another day in the office. Cillian Murphy(Pieter), as the love interest of griet shows promise.

It is the art direction that is quite outstanding to recreate the feel of 17th century Netherlands, in fact I can’t remember of any better reconstructed renaissance films amongst that I’ve seen. Since Olivia Hetreed has done a decent job in screenwriting, director Peter Webber’s role is reduced to unimaginative supervision with very little room to improvise.

The music, crowned by an alluring soundtrack aptly compliments the ambience of the movie. Eduardo Serra’s exquisite cinematography is a treat that justifies the motif of the movie as the different scenes are brilliantly captured in the artistic interplay of shadows and light.

To conclude, the story line is no where near exciting neither is anything sensational in the movie; this film is about and in images, and that is exactly what makes it a memorable viewing more than anything else, especially for viewers like me who think in images.So if you are the types who cherish computer aided imagistic memories, you are advised to give yourself an easier choice.

+++++

~Music

Push Barman to Open Old Wounds--CD compilation
Artist: Belle and Sebastian

Jeepster Recordings May 2005
UK price: £ 10.97



Convalescing from an arduous delirium is hardly a state preferred to write about the melody of Belle and Sebastian, so let me just keep the background brief.

Belle and Sebastian formed in 1997, is an enigmatic Glasgow based indie band named after French television show from the sixties.
I accidentally discovered them via a friend a while back and since then have been a huge admirer of the type of modern pop-chamber music they are renowned to craft. First for the sheer genius of their expansive experimentation and two for the subtle melancholic narrative in their lyrics which personally, I find so easy to identify with.
In a sense, they have come to mean what music means to me, - unique, evocative and evolving. Their core music is best described as a version of a cross between Simon Garfunkel and Dylan, and if you like either of them, I suggest you should give Belle and Sebastian a try, if you haven’t already.

As you listen, It’s not hard to see why you can’t recall of any active bands that sound as versatile as they sound. The unique feature, which lends identity (hence value) to the band is undoubtedly the wistful lyrics, written by front man Stuart Murdoch (mostly on Glasgow buses). It is backed by softish easy to fall in love with vocals, and a wide range of innovative music; the combination of all often reflecting a dreamy state of purposeless anomie in the suburban life.

And when I speak of lyrics, how many bands can come up with such words in their songs like this-?
y
ou are in two minds tossing a coin to decide whether you should tell your folks
about a dose of thrush you got while you were licking railings
and more importantly gotten away with them in perfect harmony?

The two CD compilation of twenty five songs , is a must have collector’s item, as it not only forms a decent introduction for a newbie but also has a good package of their more obscure tracks to an avowed fan.
The first CD is an assort of alluringly precious tracks of their folksy earlier songs, epitomised by their pensive lyrics. The variety of musical instruments complement the words and vocals to perfection.
It kicks off with the clever and whimsical dog on wheels that grows on you the more you listen, the second number, the state I am in is genius of a song-story told in clever fragmented tune followed by the gorgeously written simonseque string bean jean.
As you are still recovering from those haunting melodies, you are offered to savour Belle and Sebastian, a summery, suave number.
The next song is the crux of the CD, Lazy Line Painter Jane, a duet with guest vocalist Monica Queen the best of the compilation is flirtatiously evocative and undeniable of its brilliance in concept and execution. The experimental a century of Elvis sounds bit of Mike Skinneresque. le pastie de la bourgeoisie is an amazingly written and sung retro-treat A few other songs like Photo Jenny, Put the book back on shelf are in the magical league of their own making the CD as delicious as any CD can ever become. To say that this CD carries some of the most impressive music of our times is an understatement and an injustice.

The second CD formed mostly of their later songs, is patchy. It begins with the lengthy and ethereal this is just a modern rock song and goes on further to build up into other crisp melodies like I know where the summer goes and slow graffiti. The legal man, an amorphous tappy piece by Isobel is the undoubted star of the second CD .The later songs become extremely ordinary and characterless like in the instrumental Judy is a dick slap where you wonder whether you are just listening to any other chart pop band. The rest of the songs are unabashedly conscious only evoking at times the memory of the wistful charm so rich in the first CD but they fairly manage to carve their own pop identities as in Jonathan David, and The loneliness of a middle distance runner.


All in all it’s definitely a worthy compilation both on the pocket and ears, however my favourite Dear catastrophe waitress (Isn’t that friggin worthy to kill title?) is in another album of the same title!
If you haven’t listened to Belle and Sebastian you have definitely missed out on some sincere and soulful music of our generation, irrespective of whether you end up liking them or not.


So long,


Monday, September 05, 2005

Snowball da macao

-i-
--a-m--
---n-e-w---
----w-a-v-e----
-----m-o-v-i-e-----
-------n-o-v-i-c-e------

ps: a random oulipo spark ends a long blue monday !

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Enroute and atop Aguada....

Although the uphill distance between the Resort de Aguada and the Aguada fort is said to be not more than a couple of miles, if you look around as you drive along the zigzagged road, it is bound to extend into one eventful voyage.

As you begin to climb, first you find a narrow channel of rivulet beside to your left; a type of makeshift quay enveloped in the lush of the greens cradling a few colourful ferries. Romeo, Meena, Dono Paula, Samrat, Miramar – these are some of the names anchored home for the time being. And even as you wish to savour it a bit more, the rivulet graduates into a fading estuary and vanishes deep into a mist of grey and eventually into a marine memory.

Drive further up and the air turns lighter and the alongside trees sparser, gently ushering you out in the open, naked to the burning sun overhead.

Along with your mumbles about the heat you slowly ascend the steeping road to be accosted by the growing horizon all around. You are due to struggle here with a feel of vaulting somewhere in the hollow provinces of this mid air handshake between the spotless chromed sky above and the scorched earth beneath.

Higher up, as the road levels; an odd moocow grazing lazily, a couple of electric poles, a remnant of a signpost and your moving shadow are all that you can expect to keep your company until you reach the fort atop the hill.




The fort, as you discover is but a segment of oddly shaped serpentine sepia wall groping out from within, mute in its mighty abandon. The main passage stoops down south only to rise again to the right arching initially into a tarmac and then into the ruins of erstwhile ramparts.

It is here you might find of interest to engage with a grey bearded elder squatting in the shade of a lonely bramble; who would, subject to his mood obviously, recount how the aging bricks of the fort are witness to the stories of birth, grandeur and bereavement. And true to his words you notice how like a grand old lady she ceaselessly swallows a retreating past overlooking an arabesque future of the liquid, solid and sky.



As the view claims a pinch of belief to register, you spare an odd thought to the fortune of all those sentries of the past who would have stood guard here everyday laying a vigilant gaze over the horizons, for even the last one of them would have died a poet for sure.

Perched atop on the far end of this summit, the distant face of the sea, dressed in shades of emerald, turquoise, indigo, taupe, grey, and at places smudged by the shadows of slow moving clouds and at places bristling in silver, stroked by the long hands of the sun is exceptionally serene in its silence and expanse. The floating freckles of petite islands in between are best described as sporadic, and so are the multi-ethnic vessels that float about in so painful a torpid that you are forced to give up on their activity after a while of close anticipation.





Your left horizon is taken by the strip of the city, mainly put together by the varied colours of concrete kiosks, draped by the berets and baggies of greens and quite often but not always- interrupted, protected and invaded by both the silent and foamy white arms of the ocean. A few metal spires intended for wireless communications stand atall here and there in the distant haze. You could surely imagine how in the night, the wind would haul ripples along the black waters distorting the pockets of orange reflects in the mist of city lights.

Unbiased, the sky hovers lazily over both the city and the ocean alike as if just in an eager wait to slide behind the veil that the murk of the night draws.

Once you have absorbed an eyeful of the all these , it is here, in the surrounds of this sentinel, you wish to come during those winter evenings when the breeze is just about pleasant to study some Neruda and perhaps Brodsky too[?], reminiscing over life among other such things.

For that, is unbearably beautiful, even to imagine.

~Aguada, Goa, India.

June 2005 draft very edited later.


PS: For FSB, thanks for the interruption
.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

One moment you saunter tirelessly wading through the labyrinths of rows and columns in the library looking for your book only to give up finally in a sigh of grand futility but then you find the book being returned at the desk by a stranger wearing a smile.

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

And the next moment you find yourself discussing heartily with the same stranger (wearing the smile) everything under, within and beyond the sun in the nearest restaurant calling each other by the first names.

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

Then past such a lovely time, you both insist vehemently to pay for the memories and the pride ; only to realize that both of you have forgotten your wallets. (One of course invariably, suspects theft)

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

Then it hurts to realize that your mobile is out of charge and the other doesn’t carry one.

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

Then, as you pause , picturing your cheeks painted in the shades of embarrassed scarlet wondering how best to explain , you see your old mate walk in with his typical heavy strides and a charming smile!!

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

Now t-h-a-t is freaking strange !

she utters without taking the eye off her muffin.

Monday, August 29, 2005

The Memory....

This, for a change is not my entry. This is a guest post from Prat .
We have been toying with this for a while. The idea to guest blog, where you exchange posts with another blogger. After mutually agreeing in favour of it, we thought the best way to get over our goddamn writer’s blocks was to suggest each other some loose themes to work around. The results are here.


It’s an honour to have her here. You can find my post over there
in her place.

Im leaving you to her-

A memory is a slow walk through the halls of oneself clutching to the hands of time.Its just such an intimate moment. Between you and a melancholic part of you.


''Can you sing?'', he asked, looking right at her. Almond brown eyes. That curve in his lips. Wind flirting with her hair. Him with her. Soft old number from the eighties or so. Rocks below their carelessly dangling feet. Waves crashing against them. The notes of the Indian Ocean playing along softly. Different scales melting seemlessly into a music that sometimes still plays in her ears.

Time does what it knows to do best.
Go by.

You are ready. Bag slung over your shoulder, daily folded to an agreeable shape, fingers reach out to grab for support. One leg almost touches the train. Almost.
And then.
You look.
At the gap.
Between the train and the platform.
And wonder.
What if.
You see with absolute lucidity all that you are losing.
I loved you so much.You are the sum of all that my life has been.
Of happiness, tears, blankness, abruptness, blushes, warmth, euphoria and everything in between.
Step in.
Choose not to slip.
Between the platform and the train.
And you choose instead to work for another day's bread, to smile at friends over cups of tea, mumble incoherently about the airconditioner being cranked up too high, and how 'necessarily' should be easier to spell, and to take time off. To hold a hand.
His hand.
And thus your thoughts talk you through another night, and before it lulls you to sleep, you know something for sure.
An alteration.
To my routine tomorrow.
A crumpled sheet of paper.
Will find its place.
A love letter.Between the platform and the train....

PS:
Topic- Letting go and Restart.
Line suggested-A memory is a slow walk through the halls of oneself clutching to the hands of time.

Do let us know if anyone else try out the same or anything similar.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Fling vs state of love...

Yes, it has become an India in a way.
People are hunched all over cafes, pubs, lounges, restrooms and even the work place. Even M, the self-confessed football fanatic dropped by the telly at the commonroom the other day and asked ''Is England winning''? Text messages and phone calls are about the latest score. Football is being covered after cricket in the media.
Yes the Ashes have come to smell of life.

The lunch was all about me and K explaining the concept of follow-on to M. After nodding ardently for twenty long minutes he gaped like he had been booked.

Football, said K, finally giving up, is a fling, an one-night stand while cricket is like falling in love!
Of course not all can fall in love.
1-0 mate.

PS:That Ashes tele-adverts are quite something.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Green apple and Honeysuckle / M40

All through the drive
from London to Oxford,
on that busy M40;

We never spoke

even once ....

you
drove,
singing along to Dylan and Cohen;

me

sat beside
buried in my Sudoku and eraser-dust,

All because ----

you
had wanted green apple and honeysuckle

and

me lavender.



PS- Green apple honeysuckle and lavender: fragnances in air freshners.


Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Left of writing...?

[Cropped from an e-mail to a friend]

I might have come to believe in this –If one finds something important in life held in the beauty of words, the easiest and the foremost of the responses after being marvelled by their splendour is to perhaps repeatedly review in silence what has been written there.

Somewhere as these excursions of going over it again and again diminishes, starts a journey to examine how it has been written.

That usually would be followed by a desire, aided by some conviction and a bit of time to pursue who has written that or how consistently he can find many more such words to justify much more beauty such as of that(It is definitely not without a subliminal expectation to fulfill that?)

The last , but the most important of the questions would be to understand why it has been/was written like that?

Rest affirmed, probably somewhere in his faithful journey in answering that vital question, the reader would have unknowingly turned a writer himself!

The question however,just like life, shall continue unanswered...



At the most a writer more.


May be because, it is life herself.


Monday, August 15, 2005

Es muss sein.......

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's gonna be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it. Say good-bye.

~Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.


It is something like this , isn’t it?
To fall in love- is to be invisible, to be able to vanish with one person while around everyone.

She smiles.

The breeze beckons a memory. A curl of air floats with it happily.
You know I used to love you for that; like when you turn abruptly and smile.
And those hazel eyes.

I know. She smiles.

A smile is just a number,
another count of rainbow
against the horizon of love.


He gently places the strand behind the curve that forms her ear.
Why do you do that?
I like it that way.

Why?
I like myself when I do that.

She smiles.

One of these days I must tell her that brown doesn’t look good on her, He promises himself. He knows he cant tell.He could tell what she wore only while he was driving back.


Do you remember when we met?
He thinks of so many things he could have said. Yes so many. He remembers only her smile. And a yellow windcheater, that held the bone of the conversation.

You don’t have to say it aloud.When you know, you know.And that is all there is to it, He tells himself.


And waits, in anticipation.

Isn’t it strange, this light and the moon? She wonders.

No!! She cannot convince herself outside of it . She wants to let it go and still she holds onto it so hard.
Silence grows within the heart.Slowly into a smile that aches.

Why does she do that? She asks herself until she falls asleep.
She dreams in her sleep.


Obviously there is no such thing as a favourite. How would you define favourite ?
Its what you like most?

I like different things at different times.
What do you like most?

Right now, The piano over there.

Her music floats in laughter.

Within his dreams, he could hear her. I must hold onto it , he tells himself. It slips and wafts away into a distant fragrance.But it haunts on some evenings. It still does!And there is nothing in the world he can do about it.
There is a pleasure in futility.
She smiles.

Almost everynight she fights inside herself.
I want him away from everything. From myself. It is very important.

But he would come back, at different places , in rainy crowds as someone in an yellow windcheater, in wilting roses and old favourites.

A piano sings, somewhere, very close.
She looks for it in desparation.She cant find it.

Suddenly it becomes bright, only she feels it.She must be still in love.

She can’t escape, He knows her every curve, every space.

Do you miss me?? That is all she wants to ask him.


There is a terrible ache, that flows through them, between them.
But neither of them want to leave.

What are you thinking?
Nothing.


She still smiles.....


20 minute writing exercise, on break-ups.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Corpuscle consciousness

Have started again the evening walks during these orange sunsets,but cant say for how long I would be able to continue; Today was reminded of this while thinking of the absolute indispensability of isolated consciousness.


~ Manchester



YOU ,
In all the world, one man has been born, one man has died.

To insist otherwise is nothing more than statistics, an impossible extension.

No less impossible than bracketing the smell of rain with your dream of two nights ago.

That man is Ulysses, Abel, Cain, the first to make constellations of the stars, to build the first pyramid, the man who contrived the hexagrams of the Book of changes, the smith who engraved runes on the sword of Hengist, Einar Tamberskelver the archer,Luis de Leon, the bookseller who fathered Samuel Johnson,Voltaire's gardner,Darwin aboard the Beagle, a Jew in a death chamber,and,in time,you and I.

One man alone has died at Troy,at Metaurus,at Hastings,at Austerlitz, at Trafalgar, at Gettysburg.

One man alone has died in hospitals, in boats, in painful solitude, in the rooms of habit and of love .

One man alone has looked on the enormity of dawn.

One man alone has felt on his tongue the fresh quenching of water,the flavour of fruit and of flesh.

I speak of the unique, the single man, he who is always, Alone.

~Jorge Luis Borges


Goa ,India.

PS:Yes I collect memories of public benches from all over.

Search Blog

Labels