Saturday, March 17, 2007

M: That looks like a railway station
S: The absence of a train is a little significant

I'm sure you're missing the point here, but I promise it was funny.

If you don't believe me, kindly review other 'gems'/'nuggets'/'cheese balls' of wisdow that S spewed in drunken stew-por (the stew being vodka, wine, rum and mixed vegetable, cucumber, cranberry, soya and spinach juices. Copious quantities if I may add.)

Exhibit 1:
Posterity is not the same as posterior unless one is talking in hind-sight.

Exhibit 2:
S: These rice balls are not cheese balls! Man, that's like a wolf in sheep's clothing
S2: Aren't rice balls milder than cheese balls? That would then be a sheep in wolf's clothing
S: Have you ever heard of a wolf that 'baa's?

Exhibit 3:
S: Where am I in this picture? Ah, there I am...and I am not the blanket.

Exhibit 4:
S's perspective

For the rest of the story, write in...three beers per request.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

I am, as of now, the epitome of ‘the’ picture. One that looks familiar not because it is but because it looks like ‘the picture’. Sarong swirling, kurta worn backwards, wine in hand, I cook cholar dal. ‘Don’ plays in the background.

Sunday, March 11, 2007

'Apocalypto' upset me. I saw the movie today and am a little shaken, a little worried and very hassled. All those 'littles' do not even amount to much in totality, so I must rant lest I lose sight of this disjunctured moment.

The movie has received bad reviews galore from my academic kinsmen, so I will attempt to summarize my main problems with the film.

(1)Biography (which as an advisor warned me is always an easy way out) : Mel Gibson's religious leanings as well as his penchant for violence as spectacle somehow make this movie, the choice of period and the depiction of sacrifice easily comprehensible in terms of his vision. This vision has often been fundamentalist, controversial, short-shrifted in terms of writing and in this case, prominently displays Hollywood style shrugging of responsibility in the appropriation of history. A film is a text and as such, will be read... and while no author can completely match intent with effect, he/ she will be held accountable. While this might seem to unconsciously validate fatwah-style bans and reactions, the only thing I take umbrage to is the author pretending all ignorance of any political involvement. Slavery, conquest, genocide and violence are political statements. And that's that on Mr.Gibson.
(2) The white man must always provide the moment of redemption and saving grace(Also refer: Blood Diamond); and what's with the lack of all subtlety and the horrible stereotypification of characters?

Last, but not the least....this is probably personal, non-specific and at best tangentially set off by the film...

(4) violence and banality...I, who have trouble, punching somebody in the face (even when I am asked to; this of course by the guy teaching me how to punch) have no qualms yelling at students when they don't get something, or hanging up on an ex, or ignoring street urchins, or cutting off people. And the violence in the film disturbs me probably precisely because of this. In its consistency, its repetitiveness and relentlessness, it performs every genocide, every war crime, every act of mass destruction that we have become so used to reading about in the newspaper. To the point where it becomes banal. Another body part. Another performance of pain. And just another daily life. No comprehendo.
I need a treat. I need chocolate. I need chips. Or or or…I don’t know what I need. I need a treat. Something to mark the hour that will not be marked. For otherwise, how would the day pass? Imagine if you will, a ruled notebook. The ordinary kind with A4 sheets and pale black lines. Two dark ones on the top and a single dark line running from top to bottom cutting the necks of the pale black running mavens. And now mark time on it. To the left. Nine hundred hours. And then ten hundred. And then eleven, then twelve.

Now do it my way. At nine I will wake up. At nine fifteen, I will check email and he will have written to me. At nine thirty, I will wash and crap and brush my teeth. The world will smell and feel better; not so sleep ridden and sweat drenched. And my stomach will be empty. Such a nice feeling that; when you’ve woken up and emptied your bowels and know that food is but ten minutes away. The butter soft and the bread warm, the eggs sizzling and the juice waiting, cold and just so. The table as always will be a mess. I will ruffle my hair, rub my eyes and attempt to create a decrowd my dining/study table so I can set my deep plate down and quiet my tummy.

I read Murakami to my class last week. I read them the line that said that he saw her and his mouth went dry as a desert and his stomach rumbled. That’s how I feel right before breakfast. It’s the only certainty that governs my life at this point. And even that is sometimes uncertain.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

One waits for a sign...which, of course, doesn't come. Not for nothing do we read Beckett. And so, sans sign, sans sanity and sans souci, we're back. And will continue to talk about...uh, well...something or the other.

I stuck six sheets of silver paper on my kitchen windows. They are rather shiny and rather kitschy. I am at the edge, as far as being in love with this particular improvisation is concerned. It needs some mythification....option 1) connect to mythical person from past that loved magpie beauty, 2) connect to mythical self that loved shine and shimmer, 3) connect to the world of postmodern kitsch.

Tell, tell, tell!

More importantly, I think I need another layer of six silver sheets before the world can be effectively shut out.