Chirac is blind and pitiable. And the French too if they dont take exception to this speech of his. What does he mean we need to help develop Africa 'or these people will flood the world'. You mean sterilize them and agree black is a sad color. Was he scared whn he saw the French football team were nearly all black. O and zidane is african too; or is white african ok? even if theyre muslim and poor. And bbc nicely falls into the trap, putting up pictures of black africans.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
coffecupreader be damned
ive been around materialistic egyptians lebanese iranians and bedouins long enough to know what i wont put up with from them. And the one thing on top of that list is 'rudeness'. Especially when you've been polite to their pathetic white. And you're the one who's eventually going to pay for their hollow service. Uncover your netted head, ghani and rub some mud in. I'm glad the appointment never took place. the phone call was enough.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
How bad can it get?
Listen, O Lord of the meeting rivers,
things standing shall fall,
but the moving shall ever stay.
-Basavanna 820 (Ramanujan)
Monday, July 10, 2006
His monumentally-checked rage is the same lidded turbulence felt by every immigrant* constantly required to chant and gesture subservience-association to a national/regional/caste identity at every evaluated city exchange. Casual questions at every casual encounter working to disorient and marginalize without dignity. This is the undressing: Where are you from/religion? And what language do you speak? But where were you born? You werent born in this country? STOP. So you lie to feel better. Who thinks the spraying prattle was shrapnel? If this is what you're up against when all you wanted was free air and acceptance, you seek out others like you and in cities we witness instinctive community groupings - like any nagar you pick around the city - like the quartier difficile council estate immigrant quarters in Marseilles. This is where Zidane was born and grew rough; he's never forgotten that - and one thing it gives you is a rage that never dies; a discontent that is very very different from the indignation of the anointed (new england) balking brahmin. It makes a different kind of man, and a precious one like Zidane when you've channelled the rage, if chanelling is at all how it works. Exceptional discipline - definitely.
In significant French secular tradition, Zidane is a professed 'non-practising Muslim' and his play defined by something supremely harmonic and magically predestined. Keeping aside rationalism, when one of his only two other notable outrages on field involved stamping on the deservedly fallen captain of the saudi arabian team, you see his nobility: this was an act of pure graven justice coming down on the perverse soulless presence of saudi arabia. For a little fact on this incident: "this action was widely applauded in the Berber community as Zidane’s revenge on hated Arab 'extremists’". You see Berber Muslim is not Arab Muslim. And so, Muslim, is not an umbrella identity. Culture is the rug; (of Madrid) he says, 'It is a Mediterranean city, and that is really my culture.’
For someone who is an entrenched French icon, its tiring to know he's still called upon to repeat his fidelity. This great article tells you all he has to duck and sidestep and speak just to be.
O - and all 3 Zidane's sons wear italian names. Perfect.
More French than Gaul.
*Both immigrant and those who move within a country.
Reference: Almost entirely - http://www.kabyles.com/article.php3?id_article=2271
No shame in going out on your own terms
Some say it was a nipple tweak and a definite racist jibe from Materazzi, but most everyone's saying it was a disgraceful way for Zidane to end his fantastic footballing career. I think it's a fine end - to throw everything at stake to do things on your own terms; like not taking shit for anything, not even the cup. Happy Italy won, but I'm strongly impressed with Zidane. Fuck Mazaretti. A dick kick from me.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Hello. Wake up.
"Never confuse the size of your paycheck with the size of your talent"
Long hours with contented well-adjusted women are detrimental to the health of iggys.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
I heard a few studio exclusive extracts she (Sarah Niles) did for bbc radio. Brilliant not because she plays all 48 characters, but because its exceptional that you could barely tell it was this way in exchange. precise keen and virtuoso. The play Bogus Woman tracks the story of a young female african refugee to Britain; the detention center turns out to be worse nightmare.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
The sweetest craziest thing in a long time happened yesterday. So i'm pacing real hard on the dark stretch of museum road to make it for an appointment at tavern. And just decided to make eye contact and do a head nip with a perky tan dawg. that was all it took. the little fool began colliding its soft bones on the back of my racing legs and head butting and pawing and awing. but it didnt make any noise or anything, just all these theatrics that broke my heart as i shuttled ahead and looked sometimes. what i was really doing as i raced with a straight face, was sitting on the side of the pavement and warming as i played with this earnest fool for plain love, free hope, and funky companionship.
dog - do you even remember this solicit somwhere in your mind?
One day, i'll be coming to get you.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Shown at a RIBA exhibition in 2004.
Imagine a building made of this?! The strength and exterior texture of concrete, but a lightness imbued by, well, light itself. At night, with lights on inside, shadowy projections of the inhabitants would be visible moving across the exterior of the building ...
The article suggests the real benefits are likely to be inside the building though. Could the ability for this new concrete to be as transparent, light, and airy as our ubiquitous glass mirrored buildings provide a richer set of textures for the built fabric of our cities?
When does it all become flying feathers, spinning teeth, tumbling fur and skeins of skin in our cutesy deal with des animaux we rub? When they turn our size, or larger, and begin to rapidly and vilely organize themselves better than us - in a communication undecipherably complex and additionally entire outofrange of known human aural frequency; developing in a way that defies intervention. we become nought to them and the memory of kindhearts among humans has long since been canned. This is the time we arrive at the question that posits the clear choice - us or them; eliminating one by one. Survival is the only ideal. Unless its the Kingdom of something else.
(Pic courtesy: Marion Peck)
Thursday, June 29, 2006
So I think one reason people find football aesthetically and formally appealing - leaving aside other obvious reasons - is to do with this see-saw balancing act; when the fragile beauty of design can be denied so effortlessly by the combination of chance, improvisation, circumstance and irrational passion. It's the call-and-response tension between these forces that makes the game at the highest level so thrilling. And it's this tension which is reminiscent of adaptive design ideas discussed here previously; that design isn't the end of the process, but the beginning; that interpretation and improvisation will define the end-product, not the original design - in architecture, in music, in football.
Reference to Winners' book; Winner describes how Dutch football's pervasive and serious discussion of space and systems is an entirely predictable product of its culture.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Then i have the session with the immediate manager and one of his comments is -
'also I don't see you interacting with the women in the office much; is something wrong'. ahh? i think. where what? you know when some questions are just so stupid, you have nothing to say and i say, 'What can i say? Thats how it turned out.' Also he didnt merit any serious or logical sparring. Some people are so smug in their heat island, i'll just let the rising sea levels do the wetting.
“[ . . . ] the inclination to aggression is an original, self-subsisting instinctual disposition in man, and I return to my view [p.69] that it constitutes the greatest impediment to civilization” (Freud 81)
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Me, baby cow, and sister
May I further introduce sis(on right). She's the inspired, assured, brilliant mind I was talking about somewhere sometime. The creator and partner in self-devised imagination-imagination games such as 'Ocean Ocean!' and 'Horse Horse!'. Being slow, quiet, and pathologically voyeuristic, i ensured her role in these games assumed that of manipulator. On the homerange front, she was so plainly and even tactically infallible, she never cried and was never beaten. Our imagination games came to an end when her breasts and periods developed, which made me do everything in my power to block such developments on me. She rerouted her powers to school and topped ruthelessly but masculinely - because it wasnt in the pince-nezed-dontcopy way girls ussually have when topping. She degged and phd in rome and has taken on all the ways of a besotted roman, which is great; the men are a pleasure; and the women are fine.
On the whole, she's still a bitch. And I soon hope to join her in Sudan for her work. We made a deal some time, some time - to make it to the masquerade in Venice some time. we'll make it.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
"In the United States almost one half of children born to low income parents become low income adults. This is an extreme case, but the fraction is also high in the United Kingdom at four in ten, and Canada where about one-third of low income children do not escape low income in adulthood. In the Nordic countries, where overall child poverty rates are noticeably lower, it is also the case that a disproportionate fraction of low income children become low income adults. Generational cycles of low income may be common in the rich countries, but so are cycles of high income. Rich children tend to become rich adults. Four in ten children born to high income parents will grow up to be high income adults in the United States and the United Kingdom, and as many as onethird will do so in Canada..."
i'm really record drunk as i write now. but i went to heaven twice in the last 90 minutes watching brazil-aus 2-0. there was something wrong with the belief of truth for at least the first 30 minutes. but the connexion happened each time of the 2. scot pub should be grateful i didnt throw the mug and pitcher and take all customers before clearing bills in a chariot to joop. but i squuealed the loudest and stomped half-jumped at seond goal. should have seen it with dad whos clealry suffering from the deprevation it hurts; maybe i'll work something out. an ani and misch were nice company. misch sustained few injuries from whacks to alternate thighs and single back.
above all - glory glory. i scored.
Had first ever bday party of queer life yesterday. i crossed my toes and was grateful for the invited and cats who came. and Yasss - who hosted like 3 magnanimous hosts. i bow.
Friday, June 16, 2006
The notorious sister currently on field in Sudan has requested me to launch on a project to supply books to their rudimentary but aspiring educational setup there. A couple of second hand books of ruddy and inspired quality. Should get starting.
She should be done with her final thesis defence in a few years or decades.
There's a brilliant pic of she and me and me and a tottering cowlet somewhere in kerala ages ago; it should come up here soon. She is the most brilliant mind I've had the pleasure of some time with.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Matches I cannot afford to miss
FRIDAY 16 JUNE
Mexico v Angola
SATURDAY 17 JUNE
Czech Republic v Ghana
SUNDAY 18 JUNE
Brazil v Australia
TUESDAY 20 JUNE
Ecuador v Germany
Costa Rica v Poland
Paraguay v Trinidad & Tob.
Sweden v England
WEDNESDAY 21 JUNE
Portugal v Mexico
Holland v Argentina
THURSDAY 22 JUNE
Czech Republic v Italy
Japan v Brazil
Croatia v Australia
FRIDAY 23 JUNE
Togo v France
With malice towards none. You understand?
Have never caught on to the secret charms and intrigues of brahmin homes whatever the precious rituals smells and sounds they deign to generate, though theyre worth recording. Architecture yes. And textiles. (Music is too complex for this line). But artisans were never this band though they worked on supplied templates. And the far eastern influence in kerala temple archi makes you see how much more depended on the artisans; since they travlled more extensively. As for orthodoxy, nothing pinches like the Keralan Syrian Christian construct. And the only thing to learn from it is to leave it behind, never forget the evil in convolusion-exclusion, and move on to live, grow and maybe love. without bending.
I wonder since ideas of charm like that of beauty are becoming bleakly unitarian,
What is one expected to remember from visits to tribal and dalit homes? The general lack of legacy, history, anointment? What does it mean to be noble, to be horrified at the genteel erosion/decay of a priestly class. Is the decline of a single once-noble brahmin family the direct price for accomodating the rise of the dalit. And the sight of the penurious dalit?; well he began that way anyway. He should be grateful for anything else.
And to that i say 'precious balls'. Lead me home.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Slut of Sankeytank, Deep in Peeve
So S and I decide for the first time try the plebian dip in the big bad public pool of sankey tank. we find theres no space in the one row meant for zee ladies. the row is regularly invaded by male pool sharks who land on this end faking exhaustion obviously taking the female end for succour row. after a head-on collission and handlock with an orange-goggled male, i call him a cow and ask him to decide on his gender. So he breaststrokes himself into the deep end which is just as good. We do the dumb fuck strokes and are whistled out after less than an hour. now heres the part that really gets me wheezing.
We've barely hoisted our slick bods out of the pool when our fatherly (but mallu) ex-coach, sees us heading the long way around the pool to the changingroom. He asks where do we think we're going in our swimsuits when the changingdigs are 3 steps behind us. our bags are on the other end i say and we catwalk. And he cant stop us anyway. What the fuck was that all about - women arent allowed to traipse in the complex in swimsuits? And the men were meant to resplendate in billiard balled glory everywhere. sick shit.
In other news for the heck of driving, went with folks to a Syro-Malabar acreage in Jalahalli village where i watched an aviary with 2 freak doves with feathers on their feet. I mean feathers on their feet so you couldnt see their feet and they walked about and flew and these feathers remained. Dad said maybe they were developing doubledecker wings. And then my brain shifted and I've been feeling strange ever since.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Music for moods - Musicovery - Go straight for metal or classical or whatever you want. Grow.
Friday, June 09, 2006
The Rage to Conclude
Now I want all these books. This time all by one person - Edward Tufte.
This my friends, is how fact books should be. I can see some dusty pedantic and thoroughly dull Indian academic writers simmering at the look and success of these works and the man behind it. Because now their secrets are public play. But to give credit - nothing would have struck them. Just take a look at the chapter titles of Beautiful Evidence:
Mapped Pictures: Images as Evidence and Explanation
Sparklines: Intense, Simple, Word-Sized Graphics
Links and Causal Arrows: Ambiguity in Action
Words, Numbers, Images - Together
The Fundamental Principles of Analytical Design
Corruption in Evidence Presentations: A Consumer's Guide to Effect Without Causes, Cherry Picking, Overreaching, Chartjunk, and the Rage to Conclude
The Cognitive Style of PowerPoint: Pitching Out Corrupts Within
Sculptural Pedestals: Meaning, Practgice, Depedestalization
Superb Lyrebird makes Attenborough moment
A performance by this flamboyant and superbly talented lyrebird seems to have grabbed the awe of so many to be voted the UK's favourite David Attenborough moment. Watch the proud adorable make a clearing before dishing out some showstopping imitations. brav brav bravvvo boy.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
I wanted to start this with a curse, but couldnt find one that anyone would think was mine culturally. I wanted to tell you how things move on and how you've nailed nothing down with a forever. things move on and even a swim begins to pull and a smile is a drain. when i look back and i look here and ahead, there are small circles and rapid repeats. The new job I took up last month, I might drop by the end of this month when I leave for a friend's marriage from which I may not return. i may not even attend the marriage and i'll lean back and say my hit's coming soon and all that will have happened is that I didnt make it come.
And I'll remember all the reasonable people I ever met and maybe being reasonable is the kindest thing you could ever do. And why should I talk of kindness at all? Because I don't think it's shameless to remember childhood like the vulnerability of a young nomadic family in nomans land. Where every stranger's special glint in the eye was the greatest sparkling palace for some scruffy midgets three.
I won't remember the morbid bloats who crossed me out, because theyre all the same, so I'll remember them as one single bollop that doesnt even smell like the gutter, because I've found recently I actually find the smell of the gutter has a special appetizing appeal.
I will remember the birds (happy flitting in the drain) and aphids (on the autodriver's back), and all the dogs dogs dogs recklessly selling love with lambent eyes on narrow streets. Dogs making connections and losing everything again and again for love. not just food.
I might hold on, I might let go.
A little shakily, I might even let you know
(How smart is that?)
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
(From K R Narayan's Republic Day Speech - 2000)
"It seems, in the social realm, some kind of a counter revolution is taking place in India ... as a society, we are becoming increasingly insensitive and callous."
"The unabashed vulgar indulgence in conspicuous consumption by the noveau riche has left the underclass seething in frustration. One half of our society guzzles aerated beverages, while the other has to make do with palmfuls of muddied water."
I'm taking to this theme with resurgent hunger because it visited me a few weeks back and since then ive been walking through and meeting the issues in urgency. Ive seen its NO LONGER FASHIONABLE TO BE POOR, and it really was once as choice in our own history, the history of India. Dress poor yes thats mockingly 'it', but you're expected to have the money to be heard, respected, just nodded at by neighbours, freinds, and other fools. Wear the torn T, old jeans - but where's your blackberry. You don't have a car? Your own house? Whose giving everything away anymore - this is worth saving.
I'm going to be picking up P Sainath's 'Everybody loves a good drought' and dont doubt its place and by instinct i'm onto his background and biases already. The nobility and worth of pleading from the other side is something that beerily but clearily came up last night in WP. In this case, P Sainath is loudly, because even wikipedia knows (somehow these things have a way of being let out)pedigreed "born into a distinguished Brahmin family of Andhra Pradesh (he is the grandson of former President of India, V. V. Giri)". His current project is 'dalits'. Must we think -"he had everything and he took this. there must be so much to it". Well at least it works for the spin before the incontestable worth.
To take away nothing at all from the weighty work. The book itself will take a month to be reviewed. Viji had one ages back.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
all the week's incompetent swimming
has made me feel suddenlyyyy
buoyant at work.
I wade to the water cooler and
bubble in my cup,
goggle at the screen
and burp brup brrup.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
With all the love and wist in the air - i remember a great man i still dont know much about. His words spoke as i feel right now. translated.
... Long before the lizards, before the dinosaurs, two spores set out on
an incredible journey. They came to a valley bathed in the placid glow
My elder sister, said the little spore to the bigger spore, let us see
what lies beyond.
This valley is green, replied the bigger spore, I shall
journey no farther.
I want to journey, said the little spore, I want to discover. She
gazed in wonder at the path before her.
Will you forget your sister ? asked the bigger spore.
Never, said the little spore.
You will little one, for this is the loveless tale of karma; in it
there is only parting and sorrow.
The little spore journeyed on. The bigger spore stayed back in the
valley. Her root pierced the damp earth and sought the nutrients of death
and memory. She sprouted over the earth, green and contended.
... A girl with silver anklets and eyes prettied with surma came to
Chetali's valley to gather flowers. The Chempaka tree stood alone-
efflorescent, serene. The flower gatherer reached out and held down a soft
twig to pluck the flowers. As the twig broke the Chempaka said, My little
sister you have forgotten me !
- O.V.Vijayan "Legends of Khasak"
my absolute love and total joy go to PS - you're amazing. And I'll do my best to make it for your big day nxt month. i need to properly hug you *sniff*
This week is the most spectral ever. But what I'm going to do with a private Hindustani Classical recital from the A&A bros with whisky this friday is beyond me. All i know is that I can walk over to the club for a swim the next morning.
Hey - and tommorow it's the day of the uber Kannadiga flagwavers coming together (with me watching)- if all happens. Yay Anyway. Big fun.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Had mentioned The Meme Machine as wanted book some post back. Had read it already at BL but I need the bk bought cos i need it for peeps. Jellicles mentioned the exciting author Blackmore's dyed her hair pink. its been many shades. This reminds me ive been dragging my prehensiles over getting my grey highlights. Hey - all of you go to the bookshop and ask for? The Meme Machine.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Take this - all language jingists
Sunday, May 07, 2006
The Economist is worth the extreme price. Can the Big Mac index be applied to it? Read about its legendary style, no accident my friends. And a glossary that is the definitive fruit of enlightenment. Terms I latched to:
catch up effect - game theory
diseconmies of scale
Mags wished for free subscription:
The New Scientist
Mags given into subscribing:
The Meme Machine
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Iguana of Eggs lost her mojo since that* time.
And No one can help her find it.
I lost my fucking mojo guys.
For faff writing, faff working, faf pulling off anything, even somewuns pants and the bull over your eyes.
Jerk off to all commercial sucksexes
who make ur munnypack month after month.
Saying the right thing to the right
people, and fuck fit.
My pants are falling and I'm wolfing
at false intertext**
because i dont have a language
they should have taught me.
But I'm laughing like this :D :D :D
(see I can spell laugh, i can use smilies)
cos you didnt even know
this one atleast wasnt mine.
*examples of smart local usage - see i know this i know this. I fit in at last machcha. but where da? it stops at that. what posturing this is.
**this is smart professional knowledge - now i fit with smart ppl. They will say - How much she knows da! How much she must be reading in the side (with the thorn). Decpetor recpetor she is.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Bonny baby dislodged
It' strange, cos I do like kids and their perspectives, that when a bonny baby was dislodged onto me 2 nights back, it bawled in 0.7 minutes. I don't know what it wanted but I was interested in knowing and taking the time to know. My only conclusion is that it was besotted and feindish and wanted a jig under its sexless bottom as my folks had obliged it with in the preceding time. Ultimately, it saw iggy as competition. Babies brook no competition, they see the spirit of inquiry as their perog entirely, the intrpeid-toe-down-your-chute thing. But the rejection doesnt worry me, since I should be an aunt in 3 months and I'll set the bud straight.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Kid Book Habits, Deviation and Danger Mouse
JP's post on parents' lean on reading habits brought back the ghost of a kind of west wind. If recommendations of a the childhood literary kind were to be left to my dad - it would have been and was Galsworthy, Ben Johnson, Plato, Digital Circuits and Microprocessors. Get real right? So recommendations were not left to him and a sense of humor meant he consented to the KG syllabus book reccos instead. He also dutifully plopped his clueless squirells at the Brit Lib on some evenings a week and gave us a free hand in picking our fancy by leaving us alone and picking us up an hour or two later. Being seminally unoriginal and unable to pick anything other than the carpet knoblets, i toed the sisters' selection line. I also showed more interest in the dashing Pakistani librarian and sought to be the one to arrive at his table heaving the checkout books that I had nothing to do with. My sisters only gave me withering looks and knotted my chaddi as soon as we were on the pebbles outside. Now, to get back to the books.
My mom was a notoriously voracious but slightly despairing reader. One thing she was very sure of was what books/authors she regarded absolutely - Tolstoy (specially Anna K), Hardy, Shaw (she absolutely delighted in this theospohist) Old Shakes (slight ambivalence), George Eliot. If anyone asks her for her best in yards, it's Lost Horizon - she still talks about it, leaving paradise. But this whole influence thing went the other way: most of these authors we kids had snatched from the school or brit lib, raved about them, and while we physically horsed about biting and bleeding on our raucous real imagination games, she tore through these books end-to-end (bravo) for her own little game and peace. Here it must be known - that awl sisters and mum are supafast readers, while dad and I languish at 'slow', me more so and additionally flamboyantly dyslexic. (I think it really is that we torture ourselves with the details and then question them to worsen things.)
We always enjoyed any good narrated yarn mom or dad could spin, a few comix, televised animation, and as kids our top satisfier: DANGER MOUSE.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Is it my imgination or bizarrely true that a lot of men in pondicherry have bruised fingers. I've been seeing all these shopkeepers handing me change with queer bruises on their index or other digit. Nearly nauseated when the juice man handed me change with a tip of his index almost hanging out and bloody (bgggg - he made my frigging juice - gagbgaga). What - do their empowered women peck them at night or what?
Also now I'm suffering from partial visual impairment thanks to L'eglise de Notre Dame des Anges. The Church opens out onto the beach with a little patch before with a single high-traffic tennis court behind a marble statue of Joan of Arc. ok.
Now more than a few ppl have been badgering me with: what on earth are u doing in pondi on a holiday with just yourself, sticking to the city, your feet, and going to bed by 10? So this whole trip was never meant to be about fun but being on my own and listening and thinking and some fresh air. Pondi doesnt have a nightlife anyway except the kind you want to make with you partner in your nest, and even if it did - would never be a part of it thanks. Possibly the most exciting public nightlife has been happening in the bar below the room I stayed in - it even called for police a few days back.
Back in my room, I've had some great moments with The Economist and Hesse. For the last few days, I've decided to treat myself to Shanti guesthouse. Enough of the dingy bar life.
Just when I was going to say how sorry I felt for all pondi's bookslaves if there are any, walking down rue ange for sapad I see a book sale peeping out of a hall. O pogleee - it seemed to be some kind of SF parade for some reason - but on the whole in other genres and less botheration, quite a paradis of things. I picked up an Art&Design and really wanted to pick up another one (Art and cultural difference: hybrids and clusters) which had an article by Victor Anant - 'Kunjamma and the hooded camera'. Instead I read that article in the hall and made did with the other one. Victor Anant, I need to find out a little more about him.
In other news, eggpot is fine with the advise that tropical climates arent recommended for gout. Ireland, Iceland - soots well.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
You know this whole firang thing when it's played up or played down is really about money. No one would be half as bent back if the irangs didnt seem to have some relative wealth that worked in a market economy. Money talks. People balk.
On the whole, the locals here are pretty unaffected by the jazz. Though not entirely - particularly the younger ones who wish to enquire into the tv angle showing whites enjoying more athletic sex; conversely, sun tv is all raucous foreplay and no action - so theyre made to think that's their condemnation. Could it be that this strict line has bolstrd female empowermnent here?
Tamil women should top the index of most empowered women on earth. I mean it, I've seen every single one holding their own in town and before men. I guess having a woman CM like JL, however autocratic, did something. But more than that the political and social history of the state particularly the most reformative struggle of the Dravidian movement - gave the vital click.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Politician, politician, 1-2-3.
So ha ha. One influential politician caused me to lose one hour of sleep last night. So there I am spreadeagled on my bed after a flatout evening, cooling under the spinning chocolate disc of a fan when someone outside the door on the long balcony for the 9 other rooms as well, starts this really engaging conversation for my benefit, in nasal high-pitched Tamil (at this point in the cyber cafe I just knocked over my bottle of water - eeks). On the easy chair right outside my room. ok so what the fuck was this deal about. some second day gift? After kicking on the door and stamping around to no effect on the noise, I decided I'd had it. I put on a shirt and summoned my tamil with anger on-demand: "Enna pa - romba noise varradh". After seeing that he cringed diplomatically and stopped the noise, I close the door. I imagined though that some other noise went on like he was some insomniac and he paced in the balcony aisle a good hour after that. But I figured later those were the papers in my room shuffling on the floor.
So today morning on the way out I had to tell the manager - 'Who was that man?' Which man? 'He was talking loudly on his mobile' 'I had to tell him to keep quite' O Oh. That euh? He is a very important Congress politician-lawyer of this area - makes some important alliances. He prefers to have his drinks on top.
'O' I say. So I say to myself: Therefore, you intend to do nothing about it. grate.
Very important, he repeats.
'He makes a lot of noise'
We'll tell him to move to the other side.
U better, i say.
Ofcourse - i plan to move to another place by Sunday, dear young gun.
Paandi meanwhile is doing very fucking well for itself - with the insidious creep of mainlanders (TN state) with their impunitas, mainland ways and wanton rabblerousing (not being raci here - have enough to say about mallus if that makes it ok). I suppose the beach is doing its job - even though its 10 feet from my place, I avoid it like it's an avoidable. O and a ginger cat prowls the stairwell at night caterwauling like on desperate heat. In this roundclock heat - how does the love cycle work - anyone would be on heat all the time. Even the poor animals - it has to mean only one thing that I dont see very many big families here: downright contraceptive discipline. What else?
Ok - now I have to go eat something and change my clothes before that - could swear I heard a prig of a mother walking her clownish kid say 'clown' when I passed down the road this morning (ok so I was wearing clowny pants). Well some ppl thinking theyre on higher moral ground just because they wear a garish sari and bandy the accessory of reluctant child. Fish balls i say. Once more? Fish balls.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Here I am
I'm staying in a hotel (next to the beach) called Hotel Qualite that is better known for its rather casual cuban-like neighborhood bar than females who chose to stay there. The toilet is right out of a cinematic rep of Dutch Middle Ages with chequered tiles and there's running water. And actually the bar can give many blore ones a personality crisis - but I dont have the pleasure of using it. The water has long since run me by. And for crying out, when I search for tamil words now - I'm coming out with some distinguished kannada - dont want to begin to understand why this is happening. In other words I'm communicating only with a few ppl which suits me fine.
Meanwhile the balcony opens out to the pleasant Children's park right next to a book fair of some kind I havent visited yet. It's pretty warm.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
I don't believe it guys. Yasmine has finally got a blog.
Rock’n’roll is the musical embodiment of maleness. It’s one of the reasons women get penis envy — it looks a lot of fun. It’s about vanity, anger and nihilism (unless you’re Bono); it’s ugly things like a gas-guzzling car, a pub fight, a one-track mind. Women who play rock’n’roll are often sexy and aggressive, but, ultimately, are not representative of their sex in general. Is Courtney Love like your sister? Is Patti Smith like your mum?
Hormone rock is rock with the cock taken out, and it’s what a lot of women want to listen to right now. Women left alone with their more tormenting attributes don’t start wars. They moan, cry, bitch, go shopping; they’re anxious, neurotic, put-upon, argumentative, manipulative, analytical and brooding. These are all aspects to femaleness that none of us feels enamoured of, but they are unquestionably an essential aspect of ourselves. Rachael Yamagata’s Worn Me Down inspires thoughts of yellow rubber gloves and tired women with hollow eyes, let down again by a feckless man, on their knees scrubbing the kitchen floor of their minds. Beth Orton sings, “I’ve been reeling home, A broken shopping trolley” and Amy Winehouse, on What Is It About Men, casts herself as the passive victim: “I’m nurturing, I just wanna do my thing and I’ll take the wrong man as naturally as I sing.”
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Thursday, April 06, 2006
A talk with Yas has set me on gymming again!
And she gave some niche advice too about bouncing and ankle weights.
I'm really convinced about ankle weights.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Can't miss mentioning that you can never know where and when your highs are going to come from. Today it came to Iggy in the morning auto on st. johns road. Since longer than I can remember my young automan went for the signal in the greatest acceleration of all time. Loved it, looked up from the fluttering magazine in stunned amazement and squealed. beautiful. amazing. i'll be in speed for some time now.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
A Shipful of Cats. And One Dog.
Presenting the blog for the cat lovers of bangalore: A Shipful of Cats. And One Dog. at the blog: http://catsofbangalore.blogspot.com/ This is the definitive cat club of Bangalore and is the creation of 'Y' who will start posting pics of her vivaciouss cats very soon. All ye please post the escapades and identities of your cats here and shoot me a mail to put you on as a member immediately!!
We hope to organize the highly sought-after cat prowls regularly.
Now look what I did? I invited the c-lovers to this blog instead of the cat blog.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
There's a play tonight at Opus. Where will I goed? Or just drip on Koshys? I still think Koshy's is a depressingly morose place, with the mostly hangdog waiters nursing grudges in the kitchen and snatching matchboxes from tables with girls who smoke. Thats what happened last time. The waiter just ambled up, removed the matchbox and left. We had to call him after 5 minutes of hysterical laughter, one managing to say 'That was actually our matchbox.' Still its morose and depressing. Ime always slightly suicidal from Koshys unless I've been heady. I can read the mind of every waiter there. They desperetely need some topless waitresses who must be feisty - no point if theyre hangdog - to pinch bottoms of women and shimmy on the painfully square pillars. Wait maybe they need crossdressing topless waitors.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
I cannot for the wile of me stay awake at work today. What could I have done to dserve this? Nothing - I came back home early yesterday after buying a devastingly perfect Nigerian statuette on wood street and went to sleep by 10. So why am I this sleepy? And yet I am sitting erect at this workcorner with my eyes torn open and bleeding fumes. i dont think I can make it till even 6. bie bie.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Have always believed that the truth of the physical world lies somewhere along the many paths that cross disciplines, on an interstice or whole stretch or ragged zag or combinations therein therout in extensions. And to blissfully biased, i think its somewhere in the space of the intersections of the subjects: architecture, typography, and interactivity the very interests of Brazilian Juliana Sato Yamashita who's studied Architecture & Urbanism and Interactive Telecommunications.(i would also add music, anthro and gender studies to the listing). Searchscapes is her work - a tridimensional map of Manhattan to compare representations of the city’s “physical spaces” and “information spaces”. This is specifically what some of the representations were constructed on:
a specific address is searched on Google (ex: “1 Broadway” + “New York, NY”)... The total number of text results is parsed and then plotted on a map of the physical space. The height of the “building” on that location will correspond to the number of results found. More results will correspond to higher “information buildings”. This is an attempt to materialize information: to give it dimension, physicality. This project is an attempt to give “shape” to the data that we find on the Internet, but not “quantify”.
In one of her other projects - Urban Fragments(in 3 versions) - she takes the city of Sao Paolo in a whole other experimen - Italo Calvino comes in somewhere. Above all its the subjects she sits on and shows. See her work at her site.
Really believe that the truth behind all the brouhaha over the openheartedness and generosity of the indian, is that you only have to scratch the surface. just take the 'sapad aiche/oot aitha?' question, noone wants to hear ur reply and theyre not about to offer u their food and if they do whats hanging and implied? Its precarious and notorious if uve been in that rig; be on level with me but just watch how things change when you choose to step away from the dynamic of headnodding-familiarity and shared situation. This in a sense is a very 'American' (as opposed to European) thing. To quote from 'A Social History of Cheerfulness' by Christina Kotchemidova -
The author (of a popular 1940s book of advice to German immigrants on the American ways of speech and behavior) cautions incoming Germans against misinterpreting American friendliness for genuine interest in their persona and then suffering disappointment as nothing ensues from the initial all-too-encouraging contact. While the book deals mainly with behaviors, it also characterizes American emotionality as over-positive and self-centered—from a German perspective.
Monday, March 13, 2006
She looked on politely at his potbelly and asked, "What is that?"
He replied in perfect step, "It's a table".
"Then let us lay it," she declared.
Yesterday at koshys - on the way out dammit - saw this absolutely steel hot dude. Must have been 40, gayish, gray and totally 'it'. Like I havent seen since centuries. He was with a girl, but I would have easily knocked her down like I've been doing in a couple of places. Meanwhile my own gayish grayish highlights are falling nicely into place. Will he see we're so made for undoing eachother; i get the feeling i'm going to see him again. i lie in wait.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
less femmes en travail ici are fucking unbearable.
forming their stupid lunch-time clique; with their silly hubby-bubby concerns, housemaking, preening in their self-satisifed aunty status and gossip about new chappals, jewellery, bedsheets and nightime teehees. i could never laugh at their apalling jokes, some shit-panelled teasing that made no fucking sense. i could play along only once and then it had to drop. lunch with them? hell no. now i stand at the manipal deli, somersaulting and delighting with my (flicked) castanedas and new scientist. this has to qualify as bliss. aaaaaaah.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
The perpetually jigging right leg of the dumb fuck sitting next to me at vork became more than I could take yesterday. When did all this fuckuks start? - some 2 weeks back when I had my legs spreadeagled in my own area while at work, he walked back from the loo and before bumming onto his seat, leaned over in the swing and touched me with a finger on my upperleg and said 'sorry' like it was all planned. Being stoned as I was, I didnt register or react to what the hell had happened. Well that saved his fucking dick, if I were my normal self then. But instead, he's had to pay the dumbfuck price ever since. smashed his hand with a heavy book one hour later when I came to and was shifting books, pushed his screen to the extreme other end and slammed his leg with a chair as I passed by. But his face and jigging was more than I could take, so finally moved out to the other side. Rama fuicking christ. I still want to kill. Anyone want to die?
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
For a more tempered and level account of other events that took place on the Chikmagalur trip, read misch's account - Drive to Sakleshpur and Beyond
Monday, March 06, 2006
Partying youth found asleep among tender cocunuts in Chikmagalur
In a morbid calamity that has sent Bangalore's high-profile partying community reeling, two youthful(local?) women were found asleep in the car they were driving in somewhere on the highway between Chikmagalur and Bangalore. The possibility of accident or attack has been ruled out as neither the car nor the persons within bore any signs of damage. Informed sources and witnesses in the area where the bodies were found told reporters that they had initially suspected nothing that afternoon when a modest maruti pulled up to their makeshift yelaneer/nariyal pani stall on the otherwise deserted tree-fringed highway. The owner of the yelaneer stall stated that the 2 genial female occupants of the car had initially asked for 2 tender coconuts. The witness says they seem to have relished the yelaneer leaving only the shells, one of which was gnawed(!). He adds that the girls were well-mannered but that the one at the wheel seemed to have issues, when at one point she protested to the stall's assistant who was handing over the coconuts, instructing not to spill the neer on them when handing the nuts, as the neer left stains which were hard to hand-wash. More significantly, they repeated their orders for tender cocunuts. The stall owner adds, "We were slightly worried when they placed their sixth double order for yelaneer. But in less than 20 minutes, our stall was left with only 3 dried-out cocunuts. After a while they steered the car a few feet to cool off under the shade of a tree where they began reading books and magazines. I remember some music was also playing in the car; the same music again and again. they must have been oofi". The area around the car was littered with the empty tender coconuts.
While the lady at the wheel spoke distunguished maybe even classical Kannada, witnesses say the other seemed aloof and disinclined to say anything at all to the stall owner likely on account of her poor grasp on any language. When pressed to speak at one point while negotiating the nut's price, the latter spoke some appalling muffled Kannada adding wrong tamil words with mismatching hand gestures. Both occupants, though female, were clothed in pant-shirt, a fact which may witnesses from the area aver, was a certain indication of their dubious moral standards. However they pleaded in favour of the higher moral standards of the girl who spoke classical Kannada as opposed to the wilfully ignorant other.
Police reports state that the youths' last words before passing out in their sleep were "KK Krishnamurthy" and "KK Menon?". (Of all things). The postmortem report states cause of death to be 'overdose of yelaneer'. In recent months, yelaneer has emerged as toxin-elixir of choice among a disaffected section of bangalore's socialist middle class youth who have shunned traditionally fashionable opioid-analgesics that are niche, over-priced and imitatory. The social specimens in the car that afternoon, however, had tried to straddle both the world of socialism and the world of moderate free-marketing. Such social specimens have been proved even in the past, to fall awkwardly in the gaps between more established segments, with limbs sticking out or underwear snagging on a branch.
Closer inspection of the pair by a leading investigative agency has shown that their youth was merely a veneer as they were largely greying at the roots, regularly touching up their tint with L'oreal and Schwarzkopf respectively. Chitra A, a leading social commentator, has bemoaned this promising but in-between social strata's abandon to a life of clumsy debauchery and desperate hedonism. It is worth noting that before hitting the road to Chikmagalur on a whim, the pair were last seen in the elite 'blooh baah', where one grimaced through a blue margarita, while the other was reported to have drained an unspecified, close to countless, number of large Smirnoffs. When interviewed, some high-profile patrons of the blooh baah admitted to having noticed the pair, noting they were dressed in what can only be described as 'rags'. A waiter also admitted that it was clear that the 2 were living beyond their means when they openly fumbled with coins to scrabble together that night's 750-a-head cover charge. The waiter said he had tried to persuade them to use the money to meet their daily needs instead. He added that they refused his advise, at one stage even threatening violence with chappals, at which point he relented.
Friends report they never knew there was anything wrong and that the one behind the wheel was notoriously outgoing and level-headed, though dreamy-eyed. The other occupant, however, seemed to draw conflicting responses from those who knew her, with reactions ranging from 'the fuckhead deserves it!' to 'she was the greatest!'. Some unconfirmed reports are also giving this matter a political spin, suggesting that they were deliberately liquidated (poisoined) at the behest of the head of a leading political party on account of their possible pro-Naxal leanings, in context of the growing influence of Naxalism in the region. They are reported to have spoken to some of the workers on a coffee estate in Chikamagalur. The longer of the 2 was alleged to have been offered a roll of paan by one of the workers, an action that raised the heckles of the agitated workers' manager, who took it to be a subversive Naxal code. The manager informs that the 2 left immediately after this.
However if facial expressions at sleep are anything to go by, these 2 were likely most certainly destined for a kind of coffee-estate paradise. Their expressions were cherubic and cheery with a hint of having fought the good fight. Could it be that these 2 young bloods were the potential che and castro of an increasingly capitalistic Karnataka, nipped in the bud of their bloom?
The truth, may never be known.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Jimminy, Jimminy, chip on my knee
Sometimes people make the most powerful statements when theyve put nothing into words. And so was it the case with mother's power of wordless but maybe unintended persuasion on the subject of the cricket. cricket - the insect like a miniature grasshopper. while our child instincts directed us as toddlers to be jumpy or vampish with insects, we were particularly sure that we would like to jump as much as a cricket and fake outrage in the presence of one. But more than thrice, we observed that when mother and a cricket were around with our instincts and kid persons, we were compelled to look up to her face and find that her eyes found an established gravity. Her eyes directed us to be solemn. Her aura told us we were in the definite presence of something silent and divine. It must not be touched, troubled or distracted in its momentous way. Tweetypots, our eldest sister bot, was sometimes found cupping a cricket in her sepal palms, even before mum had made indications. I guess it took an eye and age to know some truth. Now for some reason as the toddler trio, we identified each cricket by the very personalized name of Jimminy. 'Theres a Jimminy in my shoe!' 'There a Jimminy in the cupboard!' and so on. The point that must not be forgotten above all, is that, we were solemn and serious in their mystical and deified company. So it was that yesterday as I sat on the chamberpot in the morning, only 10 cm ahead of me, was presnted the backside view of a dapper cricket. It had the texture and color of a chip of hazelnut wood. I dont know why it chose to show me its backside. Maybe I had show it mine once. But iggy became solemn and proceeded decorously. It wasnt until yesterday night that it struck me that that little view of the backside of the cricket was an image whose spirit had squatted upon my perception that whole day. Until i remembered it again that night.
The might of a cricket.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
I gonna make white hair fashionable, give me a month for the streaks and highlights to die. I got it all baby. And I'm going to show it.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Big beards, bushy voices, cheap thrills and she
Beards have always scared me, except in those few cases when they havent scared me for reasons like - the face was too pacific, or genial such like. Along with beards, another thing that scares me is a deep voice. For some reason it shatters me completely as I've already confessed to a couple of people here and there. So on the whole I getscared by largely hairy and deep voiced things and really have to try hard to compose myself before I do anything constructive in their presence. Now, is this the very reason why men grow beards and harness deep voices, because in the prehistoric society of physical domination - putting fear into the enemy - was a certain guarantee of victory? Is this why in modern office times, some men continue to do so? For me however as I travelled through time, nothing has changed. I still shiver at big beards and bushy voices. The only thing that would clear the fear out completely for me would be if somethign got me very angry at the same time.
The ditzy cafe was alright, endurable, for atleast an hour.
But nothing was going right with the man she was meant to humour.
A fearful beard and a voice liek god.
With the first line he spoke, she trembled as she shook internally and finally surrendering all control, let her face fall into her plate of dark cake. She gave up, she was never going to connect with this hairy man with an important voice. There was nothing normal in any of this. Why had she ever agreed to this illstarred act of hairball sitting for a girlfriend whod take another horrifying hour to arrive. Weekends in a dark room with books and agents of death had always served her well. Why this? Go back - say I must go. now! Lifting her face from her cake, with some dark syrup streaks on her chin, she looked at his face once more. Jesus Christ! This was the whole of hairy Syriac Kerala looking back at her, every lecherous district, town, lurid front alley and semenal backwater, sticky uncles and heaving aunties. save me. And that was all it took. If she had had a trunk between her legs, it would be showing above the table now. She took him by the hand and they bundled into an auto, where they harnessed every calamitous shudder of the chassis, to arrive at new understandings.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Thursday, February 09, 2006
What is socialism?
We've already understood one thing in the last week: when someone you thought was okay once said: 'fuck socialism' and continues to pride itself on being a capitalist whore, they should been chucked out of your circle right then; nows also okay - better late than near. But now that that's been long since decided, What the hell is socialism? What am i when i am a socialaist?
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Everything he Understood
Iggy spoke among the many beans in him as he rumbled in the morning autobug.
"Why are those dogs galloping down the road like they have somewhere to go?" Buff. Buff.
"The last one in the gallop team appears vaguely self-conscious in her lopsided loose sprint."
"It seems to be thinking - I hope it looks like I fit in - this be the only gang I got."
"It looks like it might cry if it weren't galloping and faking outrage for the pack."
"I've been dreaming of earthquake these past nights."
"The building shaking badly without falling."
"And I'm clutching the bedsheet on the bed where i lie at night."
"I cry 4 hail marys to stop the earthquakes."
"The unwilling dog; this deception of devotion. We are weak"
Monday, February 06, 2006
Design that makes you smile - Tea for Two
Check the creation of Chilean designer Sebastien E: Tea for Two.
Divine secrets of the Ya Ya brotherhood
The Ya Ya boys
The boy who got pissed
The boy whose number was never on my list
ok. So what again is freedom of expression about then?
Is the line to be drawn between offending and informing?
The Ya Ya boys had a right to speak their opinion. I had a right to get angry and scream. But not show it by harming them physically. Or killing them. Which would mean an end to their voiced opinions. I had a right to speak defamatorily about a woman in libel 01, her admirer had a right to call me a fiuckign bitch. So what is this utopia about - no opinions, conflicts? In both cases - the ya ya boys incident and the libel 01 scene - i thought at first the unwise ire came in the reaction to the trigger. But apart from wanton swipes, the trigger often also springs from a simmering, recollected or realized anger.
So what is the onus for? Free Survival and observable progress as fair indicator.
Where does it fall? Think it should fall on the creator of what later inflamed. That's each of us in our actions. But this applies only where the trigger was physical. Am I trying to cover my ass here? Because even verbal or written triggers may have physical fallouts - like retaliatory harm directed towards creator of the trigger or self-inflicted harm or harm to third parties. ok.
to be continued.
The fallout of libel: you get called a fucking bitch by men who care for the subject. This is an opportunity to learn more about the history of libel.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Libel piece '00': The reprobate rump of a monkey mouthed* malayalee
Yeah - Poops was one slick bitch. with chilky hair and shiny skin and possibily oily chandhi. I mean even if the men were breast-biased, though she was flat chested, theyd make the exception for her because her vertebra-deforming rump made up for it in assisting emissive dreams. Because she looked liek a B-grade slut they could tie to the bedpost and whip to a stiff peak. Her little shimmies and guiles were perfected by her particular pedigree of kanniving keralining. She flat-chested up to the right men who could finance her guilt trips of consumer tomfoolery and arrange imaginary hoists up the corporate ladder. 'O Ammayrica Ummayrica' her dull soul directed her reprobate rump as it enclosed and boggled ...
*is a beautiful feature in anyone else
Libel piece '01': Chetan Digital and her analog tits
Friday, February 03, 2006
This is love this love that amphet-meen
The young man stood at the edge of the pavement, backlit by the electrified kabab shop open behind. He balanced an open paper wrap of kababs in one hand and looked at it devotedly with his head tilted to one side, as he picked them up, almost caressing them in the instant before lifting them up with love to his lips. His self delighted and leaped to near fulfilment at the assurance of the meat in his mouth; they had found their seat. 'O Delite, you never let me down, my love, my love. Stay with me' - his body panted as his private mouth quickly gloried again and upon. He tried nothing as all his organs found sense in themselves. His round thighs in jeans bulged on the lower flanks with his feet a foot apart.
His body stood in the quality of the moment.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Jyllands-Posten - this is the spirit of the free world
What is freedom of speech about really? When we talk about the right to 'freedom of speech', what do we mean? Because at office where i sit i dont speak many sentences but I'm okay with everyone making more than their share of verbal cacaph. I only have an objection to waves that cross reasonable decibel threshholds. And when verbal crap has been directed right at me - unreasonable demeaning demands and plain nonsense parading as sense. But religion is a whole other nutgame. And the new inductee has helped show some things. Cos religion is a big topic in her hot-cold sphere. So one day the Muslims are the honorable underdogs and the next theyre gruff goats; Christians are better one day and the next day theyre uptight bigots; Hindus wanton and freespirited by turns. Jews though, remain irrevocably damned. And even if I tried getting itched, nothing happens. Cos my religion is the music I hate this minute which might be what I'll love the same time tommorow. Religion is about personal realisations contradicting and harmonizing uniquely to each, uniquely in time. So when a pope or a swami or mullah issues edicts and people follow, then this is the crime. That institutions have colonized personal realisations, and that people have let them. So if everyones journey is unique, you're going to be seeing the billion emblems of their beliefs all over, and youll inevitably walk over some emblems because theyre lying all over the place, and it shouldnt matter to anyone but the one person whos emblem you stamped on. In reality just 4 major faiths claim the 'religion' of most of living humanity today. (Thats a lot like the oligopoly in free markets) That's unnatural, but the case.
Now what does it mean that thousands of 'Muslims' in Muslim-dominated nations (and others) are rising in protest at the cartoons, burning the Dutch flag and boycotting Dutch ware? This can be confirmed to be atleast historically regressive. Yes, I did say something about arriving at your own realizations, but holding the mirror of history, we give insights from personal reflections a depth that shows up everything behind us really ahead of us. We can repeat the past or change the future. That would depend on what you thought of past events in the first place. Were 'infamous' instances of state progroms / exclusive propogada / enforced regimens - right or wrong? The idenitifcation of 'rights' comprehensively covered in the UN* Charter of Human Rights, took as many centuries of human existence on this planet as it did; all an accumulation of the relaization of centuries before, orally transmitted and really recorded. Truths for progressive human existence.
I don't really know what to say to the French theologian Sohaib Bencheikh's comment to the incident,"One must find the borders between freedom of expression and freedom to protect the sacred,...unfortunately, the West has lost its sense of the sacred." This first sentence by logical parameters pleads nothing because the 2 freedoms he seeks to have barriers between are not only already 2 distinct freedoms - one natural, the other protectionist/resistant - but are by their very quality, opposed. So what exactly is he pleading? And then of course - what if the West has lost its sense of the sacred? The other thing that shows up how deliberate all religious affrontery-taking is, is that this cartoon was first published in September. More recently, "newspapers across Europe have reprinted caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad to show support for a Danish paper whose cartoons have sparked Muslim outrage...France Soir, Germany's Die Welt, La Stampa in Italy and El Periodico in Spain all carried some of the drawings." I think its important to note that British papers aren't part of this press solidarity. The world press freedom watchdog Reporters without Borders, based in Paris, defended the newspapers - "Freedom of the press also exists for viewpoints that shock the majority of the population," RsF head Robert Menard told France Soir.
I believe in watchdogs for freedom.
I belive watchdogs for offence need to read history in the interests of originality.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
calm calm late bloomer
As a pal and I were walking up the road and returning there was this bunch of faceless bloody 'local boys' who werent even local to that street (ha!), they couldnt stand I dont know what. I mean they couldnt stand this: That as we walked along, me and my pal were having a nice healthy conversation. In english. and they couldnt understand none if it. Maybe it was a class issue as well joining issue with their other limpdicked issues, because we were especially dressed like fucking beggars. Feed a little more on 'jogi' boys - but we're this side of the battle ok?
So they said 'Yaa Yaa Yaa Yaa' as we passed by, which mildly irritated me cos I knew exactly where they were coming from (to use a cliche doing the rounds). I was mildly irritated enough to want to see their dicks ripped off by the street pet dogs who were walking with us. And then for some reason after a few minutes we had to turn back the other way to get to our destination. We passed by that group again And again:
'Yaa Yaa Yaa Yaa' - Young men speaking only words they think they know in english
'Limpdicks, suck my swinging tits and hand me your dicks so I can slap them in your asses. I WANT TO KILL YOU - FUCKING SEMEN STICKS!' - Me to them, screaming, shaking, fucking rahghing mad and gangraping them to death.
I'm really disappointed. Whats this whole city shit about? i'M FUCKING STEAMING ANGRY! So even if I'm goign to see vatal nagaraj with goondas at my door waving his fist about the fucking primacy of kannada or tamil, I'll rape him, man - fucking tear his dick and make him eat it. I'll do it.
Language is one pretext for division - we should just shelf all the nicely academically recorded languages there are in this freeswinging country, so no one can call them forgotten languages atleast, and just jerking focus on one flipping language. Like English. Thank you rushdie for pointing out the urban malaise and false boasts of dwellers of Indian metros - who "can boast to speaking atleast 3-4 languages - all of them badly, none of them well". And I know a lot of fucking assholes in this city, who only wait to boast that they speak o wait kannada, tamil, telugu, malayalam, hindi, yeeeven urdu, o and english. So how do I say fuck you baby? You'd say it in english tit brains. Ever heard of the dysphemism treadmill? I dont know kannada too well - gothilla godzilla - so you see i'm a disadvantaged, poor fucking lady ripe to be overrun by the marauding half-knowers of a language that retains almost nothing of the original pali-influenced scriptless script. But I'll still kill you. and you'd choke on your blood saying sorry too late.
Fowler and Reddy
Yesterday evening, a terrific trio, which included me, visited the Park to listen to Konarak Reddy and Dylan Fowler. After procuring the tickets which were booked for us but denied until I raised a affected polished hackle or 2, we waited in line for 1 hour. The wait was highly nonsensical but bearable because our tribe laughed a lot with a little inspiration from some members who are in a helpful perpetuial state of delirious euphoria. While everyone else was weighed down by gewgals and decorum, we noted that the receptionist at the far end manning reception, was a devastating hunk. And just as I looked on and probably had the chance to make an impression as he maybe looked up, MY LEFT EYE BEGAN TWITICHING UNCONTROLLABLY. It didnt stop until I lost total interst in making an impression on anyone. Grrr. Why didnt I also go limp in one leg and start belching, and develop a twitch in my right shoulder. I tell you. Anyone we finally rested our bottoms and listened like raptors while the tempos picked up. The most amazing piece I wanted to jump and shout to (but didnt) was Dylans amalgam solo towards the end - can someone help me get the name of that number? - I didnt carry the program. Reddy's solo Sneha was sweet. I really didnt think I could be captured liek that - as I was for a few pieces here and there.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
I think henin-hardenne is an asshole and just couldnt face defeat. Was too obvious. What a sick crap woman to take the wind away from mauresmo's victory. She was comprehensively outplayed from the start and had to come up with a sham excuse like stomach ache. my blistery foot! she should be fined. Because what she did is called 'tanking' and demands her suspension from future slams.
A million whoops for Mauresmo!
Friday, January 27, 2006
only because life is better than death
Since I have no image to live up to, i lose nothing by speaking unfashionable, and right now it's about smoking up / toking or other routes for more lethal stuff. Some people cant think of anything greater for their egos than to say - 'that guy cant handle stuff' or 'chumma he puts one'. Like what should the true high pretext be o holy one? The point is: once you've found it's not your trip, it's not your trip - listen to it and stop. It's ok if you're first trip was a sad trip - if that was enough to put you off crap for life, theres no shame in that. You don't have to find the 'right' trip for the pleasure of talking about it like a pro for all time. Though I have to admit, the choice often means being kept out of some delightful company who wont admit you in the same way if youre off it.
I have the greatest respect for people who can handle every growth out of the soil gassed into their lungs and still trip the right rockstar way, but their reality is their reality and yours is yours. And then some absolute truths also stand out. Like what's the next groovy thing? - fixing my mouth round the exhaust pipe of engines for CO? As for myself, it took me a harrowing week of work-ordained motion sickness (from drive to a client in faraway EC), to realise truths. I really can't even take cigarettes and until a month back I always did light up in company for the confrerity of it. But now by no exercise of the will, my body's simply cancelled it out. And without anything to prove because friends still smoke, and so I still smell like it, and last week when I came back, my mom said the smell was too much. i just said - mum, you make me very sleepy. I had nothign to protest because I knew what the sq was.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
dream on a knoll
Before I forget this entirely, my lastnight dream demands to be written down in these few minutes I have stolen at the office space in office time. I dreamt sometime in the early morning that I was lying on the top of a grassy knoll on my belly, chin in my palms. It must have been very high up because the clouds were very close, and just a few feet above I saw this bird coasting, as birds do only when theyre pretty high up. And the bird was coasting in a small area above me, almost at arms distance and i thought it looked very dreamy and it was idyllic. I liked the clouds so close like a roof and the bird coasting at arms length. I tried without much effort to touch the bird as it coasted in the small circle in my view and it looked like I waved while I wondered. I wondered and tried hard to find if I might know which bird this was. It was white and medium sized with grey wingtips. Then the word 'Albatross' came to my head. But this was not an Albatross I knew. I shook my head as I looked up because I knew this was not an Albatross. (It was a very likely a sea-gull, I now realise) but I enjoyed everything as I allowed myself to be mildly bothered by the bird's generic name. My palm was held out as I tried to figure its true name. And as I lulled in the mystery of the perfect moment with my palm held out, something fell thwack in my open palm. It was the the bird's wing torn out. I cried. I asked 'Why?'. Soon the gull's body fell some distance down. I cried. I asked Why.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Ok. This isnt at all important but I forgot something very very important in my list of 8 things: He musnt have sharp/skinny hips.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Mannnn!!!! I wear a sari and fall flat on my face on airport road while tackling a pavement. Right in front of the packed bus stop. I hope some hunk saw my torn underwear.
Friday, January 20, 2006
So, Fingers tagged me. This is the second time in my blogging history that I've been tagged; and i'm a little excited cos its like being invited to a big jumpy party.
I have to write 8 things about what my ideal partner should be like.
Well yes, we're assuming he's a male.
1. Thoughtful and Original
2. At peace with being in public and private
4. Doesn't have a fetish or secret or overt thrill for firang women (ie. white skinned wombats)
5. Sporty (loves tennis and workouts and loves working out with me)
6. A greedy greedy varied reader
7. Uses the BTS bus service from time to time
8. Counts me as his best friend and bum pal (magic)
Uhh So now I tag Misch, Recho, Ubermensch, and Yas (who hath no blwog)
Thursday, January 19, 2006
My brains forked. I want to jump from a wall and break my nose. But I also want Dravidians to be established as rulers of the world deposing Jews in the Final Battle of the With
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
w*king when you dont want to is like being raped - something that someone like me just doesnt allow. but i'm letting here and now i'm getting it done to me. i swear i'm going to run with all the testosterone vapour in this fucking air. I hate magalomaniacs even if theyre sometimes impressive and considerate and compassionate. fuck it chuck it i says. i'm not here to accomodate that even if i'm a bacteria-ridden vermin.
i wrest my case all ye dickheads on which my bacteria shall not grow.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
What pornography is really about, ultimately, isn't sex but death.
The only interesting answers are those that destroy the questions.
Monday, January 16, 2006
I guess the real reason is: i've reached a stage where I want to be able to take near total ownership for my work and the business i work for. thats why. that there might be another less masculine way of doing things.
Friday, January 13, 2006
What do you do when youre feeling real horny and youre sitting in the office on a Saturday that isnt even a working Saturday and there isnt anyone else there?
Ans: The day before you should have gone and gotten yourself a flash drive and realised that night your home PC doesnt have a usb port and the next day figure out that you musr stick an adaptor card into the frigging PCI slot. This might entail reinstalling your OS which is great specially if youve lost that pirated CD in the first place. And now we're feeling like this.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
The nicest things are totally unplanned. Yesterday evening i played balloon handball and football with my totally zany mother. It just started with us hitting the balloon at eachother. then we started kicking it. and then it was side vs side. We had a bawl. over one hour of it. And absolute fun with no strings attached. It was also pretty embarassing because mum didnt break into a sweat and i was wheezing and sweating while posturing fitness. But the fun. what fun. Its great to have a mum as crazy and totally unexpected as you are. The great thing for her is that she looks 25 yars younger than me. hmmm. anyway. i'm also pretty excited about many things.
Friday, January 06, 2006
A mystical disc. Of moon in a dish.
7:08 7:09; cat on the cushy; cat on the line.
I maike up my island, i maike up my mind,
I live for the liquid that pours in a line;
It drips on my toes, it smudges my fuzz,
It splashes on tile, but leave her a vile.
She's growing, she's growing.
The drum of the dawn, turns eyeballs to look
A singular tabby hook in a brown nook:
A corner that flashes with sparkles and blades,
And switchknives and needles, and pokies and haze.
She turns there her neck and beams at a disc:
A mystical disc of moon in a dish.
Full moon in a round dish of metal like steel,
She considers her equal: her deity pool.
Breathing the vapour of steam on the skim
She casts a close shadow on a circle of skin.
We Worship the aura of actual things
Like the skin on the skim of a mystical thing.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Came back as early as i could last evening, put in more cat food, milk and water about, contemplated on the stars and the mosque on the terrace with frend, the pain of death in the reading room, hard-boiled 4 cat eggs and didnt yet ravage the bookpile. however did go to bed at midnight and had to admit one caterwauling cat to make it stop caterwauling. obviously it was going to share the bed with me tho i thought it was pretty clear it was going to stick to the other side. after fooling noone with its absolutely absorption in ritual licking, i decided to mind my own business, pull up the blanket and settle with a collected t s eliot- pretty cliched this is but i turned to the Book of Practical Cats. i think the pulling up of the blanket seemed to work as some vestigial indication, because with a pop it began stalking to my side of the bed and stuck its head under my derriere for crying out. to the credit of my openmindedness and the eternal shame of the family name (if it turns out there were cameras rolling), i didnt react with instant outrage but considered what he was trying to get at. Turns out I was too tired and really didnt want to be flea ridden that night - so gave it a soft knock to the other side of the bed.
It licked itself a lot.
I said shut-up twice during the night.
I petted and strokd all cats in the morning.
i think this whole cat trip is making me a more affectionate person.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Kiddy Kiddy Kiddy caths
uhhh. Because i've had to vacate the more livable room at home for a guest, ive had to sleep in my own room which is a haystack with lizard parts, books and clothes for walls. Now i've developed health impediments like: fluttering lungs that ache and clutch, and more importantly a dangerous hostility to the guest who happens to be spanish. I'm frankly ashamed of myself, i'm a fucking rotten host, and my mother always warned me ever since i was 4 that i'd grow up to be a famous smelly beggar on the streets with no hope and a repetoire of harrowing facial expressions. If life's about boomerangs, my hits coming and mom's going to be partying in Ibiza very soon. The good news is that first, Ibiza is no longer so popular, and second: i'm going to be staying over at a friends place in ulsoor fom tonight for 3 days, with no one but her cats all 6. the other 6 are taking a break elsewhere. I'm told if i wish to invite the cats to sleep with me at night, i could leave the bedroom door ajar, rush back into bed, and theyll tumble upwards clownishly but elegantly and make themselves felt. During the evening i am also to rub them decorously from time to time (while they take on alarmingly explicit postures which must not move me) after laying out the water and food.
Yay. I'm going to be staying in a house with 6 cats for 3 days.
In my current state, it's just what I need. Thanks Yas.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Sometimes it's so pointless hanging around men. The most productive thing you can do with them is: listen to music and look into the distance and think you're own thing about colours and textures; guess who the bimbos are? Been having a nice time with girlfriends this past month, theres less in the way, no dumb game inbetween. We havent thrown them over yet (donkeygiggle).
Point 2: i'm throwing in the towel, the hat, the shoe, the spanner, the whole work thing I've been doing this past year on airport road. have to tell the top dawgs. why am i letting it go? i'm sorry but with a twinkle of a misty thing in the eye: i've just run out of steam. just run out of it. i think i'll miss everyone and the bottle I used to suck out of, the seat i used to warm, the natgeo pic poster of the baby meerkat,...but it has to go. (i'm not following a certain scriptwriter to bombay to become superstar.)
Right now with the Goetheanam on the desktop, pearl jam's last kiss playing back, i ask as i teeter with a toothtip on the rim of a teacup: what does it take, whens that exact moment - that we've left childhood forever. when did we become terminally adult. We cant go back so don't go there. Maybe I'll lay my cousin and get it back. Apart from all that. Before I leave this blog and the city for good, there are a couple of entries that I've decided this space should show:
-The history, the fun and torture of the bra - (like what the fuck is a D cup?)
-All you need to know about chronic motion sickness
-My all new nightfixcap
Thursday, December 22, 2005
I'm ready to spend the rest of my life with a golden lab.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
The dudest mall of all time? I would still want Ramanujan (even if he isnt mull).
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Why do I always leave my key behind when theyre out for the night. So now I have to sit at this net bar till they come back and my legs are paining and are very tired and my brains dying. hell.
Monday, December 12, 2005
I'm fucked. This time I have to look out for a new place thats cheap. This means goodbye travel plans. To be called a bitch behind your back by your own f&b - that just takes the dungcake. I also dont have patience right now for ppl who ask questions like: what do I think of hindu religioius imagery; do i feel alienated? fuck you - ask yourself. right now I dont think im expecting much when i'm asking for a cheap place with a nice owner and water-elec. shit.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
I think the sordid fact that yie yam actually a dyslexic masquerading as a copycritter is coming to blazing light. Time for a profession change. Cos really: 1) hit the ceiling 2) cant find an assistant 3) am really dyslexic 4) have been seeing the end of the road of me as copycritter for some time now 5) cant spell 6) have developed eye problems; may actually be going blind 7) o ye - and yam also not a perfectionist in the grammar detail / spelling sense as critters are meant to be, so ...
Bleeding fuck-lucked jew. So now i'm beginning to sympathise with all the beggars and blinders on the road. I hear that life is no easier though I might learn another language. Lets see.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
The Pig Sneezes into the Heart
Theres so much synchronicitous shit happening since birth that you don't mention it. But here's an event for the record: At the fraudulent Strand Sale playing out at Chinnaswamy Stadium, walked in on Sunday morning and ambled till i landed at the inevitable art corner. Once the fill was had, swung round dramatically like a raptor dino attacked, and sneezed loud so everyone looked for some time. Then in the heat right after the rapture, turned open the book closest to my stretched hand and flipped it open to a page describing the artwork and titled the same - The Pig Sneezes into the Heart by Kurt Schwitter. It was page 60 of the book "Dadaism" by Dietmar Elger.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
suddenly i thought, looking into the eyes of a dog and then a cat, that its very likely that the dogs the result of a cross between a man and a 4-legged creature, and the cats a result of a cross between a woman and a 4-legged cret.
you need to be a certain age to gauge a certain world view.
After straight tall vodkas and 2 breezers i still walked in a straight line back 2 kms to a kind of home. braving policemen who looked sidelong at one point. for crying out. was it the jacket?
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Skim on your windblow,
Bubble in your tea.
Ship in my eyebrow,
Trouble in my sea.
Slip down a whiphorn,
Walk through a bead;
Give away water,
Give away seed.
Peep in the pipe,
Poke in the dream,
Leak in the like,
Wise, wise, machine.
Phone by the bumble tree:
One, two, three.
Thing in the rumble jeep:
jeep, jeep, jeep.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Try and catch my cousin's first movie effort - RICH MAN'S WORLD -
Director: Thomas T George
Channel: NDTV Profit
Date-Time: Saturday 26-11-05 11 AM/Sunday 27-11-05 2 PM
If anyone has this channel at all as part of their cable bundle, please invite me to your place on Friday night, so atleast I can wake up for myself to catch the prog.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
... as men wouldn't much care to see. MM was also an avid reader with a tidy collection which was about the only thing she'd pack when moving residence. Her library contained a subject range from philosophy to history and drama, Tolstoy and Camus. "Breasts like granite and a brain like cheese" said one director about her; you must know who was in the business of commodities.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
What a bleeding resistant night. fucking resistant. i really dont know whats happening but i think its a bit like loosey poop, in the sense things just being very strange. like now i'm listening only to carnatic/instrumentals, every other shit i've left behind because i find it takes me to the edge and is really idiotic affected bullcrap. specially lyrics.like a bull mating with a bushchat; something it never does. i'm really pushing it and my support group, also didnt attend the first rehearsals for today evening. Still feel sick from a trip to a client on frigging sarjpr. its always the return that makes me sick. And I've told just one person this, but for records sake: yesterday evening as i sat waiting for having things done at SN, at shits end, and about to make a dramtic walkout, i looked back at myself in a freely offered reflection. And for ten minutes (which is longer than I've been on any idea of late) I had decided that it was in my stars that I should take up the cloth. you know - become a *. Even after the job was done and id taken the voyeurs seat in the open carraige, this thing was certainly playing somewhere in my flatenned being and becoming some creature. And then to take it further, that night was bleeding resistant. It's been like that since. i could cry cos now i think i really lost the groove and i'm never getting it back. just when i found it.
Monday, November 14, 2005
we're tyros and unprofessionallos except for the guitarists and the lone singer.lets see how it goes. her 'blowing in the wind' simple clear and easy; hope she sticks on. just had to say something we suddenly felt about entertainers - particularly dancers - you have to have been a solo stage performer - specially dance - to know what it was entirely about. did solo dance stage performances myself for 4 years - whaaa? yes, i know; i just had to - it was the deepest-highest feeling you could be everytime you crashed out or shot straight. I'm shivering. Here's to energy again. And ofcourse, whatever else you may think: Madonna.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
My wet met man
What would it be like being married to a weatherman? I think that would be exciting. He'd have all the breaking, life-threatening news first and if we still loved each other, there could be a day when he knows and covers up news of approach of one big storm and we could stage one big getaway to a safe place leaving the rest of the city to weather a potentially devastating calamity. Then we could pursue stamp collecting and complete our own prize collections by picking out from other's collections in the rubble of the dead city we return to after the storm. We'll be the first to do so many things. We'll appropriate all history. Make new records. We'll be real chimp champs. And I think that's fair. No one thinks of weatherman otherwise - they're so hard done by and undesirable and deridable. 'So, what do you work as?' 'Meteorologist' 'Whatologist?''Weatherman da- the one who forecasts weather you see on dd?''O that(snigger)so you knew the tsunami aa?'('Ye-that's my pet name for that clump of pubic hair fraying out of the left neck of your your chuddi'). The secret miming turmoils he'd have to release every night, i could try tackling them with a study of the weather report, the rage, the mystery - it's the most compelling feeling I've every felt. 'I'mm moving in a north-westerly direction tonighhh with undercurrents right here'. I'm with you my weatherman. all the stormy way. We'll ride it out together.
Monday, October 31, 2005
My all new sheroe: Maya Angelou.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
it's not the truth you know that matters - but how you put it.
(i'm going to learn japanese in dublin.
and the first thing i did when i came back - to a single lethal curse from dad after another late night this month - is read a few pages of scribbles on the fortunate notebook of a boy-man i had discussed about with some heat that very bramble-lost evening, and then pee. And just as i was about to pee down the urethra toob - i thought of oscar wilde. oscar wilde. lawd of ladles. lawd.)
- the one thing I know now as i sit saddled with my body at home over this keyboard is that: it is time to worhsip a.k. ramanujan. come let us praise him. and this is not the way to do it. the understated south indian, self-contained, head of south indian studies, tender, vulnerable, honest (not crafty), respectful, shy, polite, glowing softly in the eyes with the earnest simpleness of life like the true southie, lovely, effeminate, deep, still, and strongly human. Please find out something more about him for yourselves. I am too overwhelmed everytime to collect myself to write anything at all about him in any sensible way. He is the man. I know that I am probably violating the rights of his estate now, but i'm risking it, because it is all I can do in the context. This is the word of ak ramanujan. His poem - 'Obituary'.
Father, when he passed on,
on a table of papers,
left debts and daughters,
a bedwetting grandson
named by the toss
of a coin after him,
a house that leaned
slowly through our growing
years on a bent coconut
tree in the yard.
Being the burning type,
he burned properly
at the cremation
as before, easily
and at both ends,
left his eye coins
in the ashes that didn't
look one bit different,
several spinal discs, rough,
some burned to coal, for sons
to pick gingerly
and throw as the priest
said, facing east
where three rivers met
near the railway station;
no longstanding headstone
with his full name and two dates
to hold in their parentheses
everything he didn't quite
manage to do himself,
like his caesarian birth
in a brahmin ghetto
and his death by heart-
failure in the fruit market.
But someone told me
he got two lines
in an inside column
of a Madras newspaper
sold by the kilo
exactly four weeks later
who sell it in turn
to the small groceries
where I buy salt,
in newspaper cones
that I usually read
for fun, and lately
in the hope of finding
these obituary lines.
And he left us
a changed mother
and more than
one annual ritual.