Isthmus of Ignatz

Brick by Brick

Monday, November 29, 2004

scud, Prague, and seeking

Is it any surprise that the only cousin ive ever kept in touch with is male and matches philipoussis. The wonk I now hear left bombay some time back and has lodged in prague working on 7 films of some dubious kind, maybe porn. We'd agreed some time back we'd link thereabouts very soon, pub crawl, and castrate any racial slur-hurlers. Wondering if Ive the time for any of this galivanting though. Staying put and breathing is hard enough and my baby Bangalore needs me - o yes she does. Sorry, i'm only kidding myself, with every passing day i feel less and less belonged. Every idiot here speaks atleast 4 languages and here i am struggling with just one, connecting with none of the since10yrs neighbors who generate gossip, babies, and catfights like pee. Bangalores becoming something i know less and fear more with every day. What is the truth? and where do i find it.

Crack goes the Nut

Somewhere in the clueless time of the teens, gave up being a foodie. But today at 2:39 pm fixed the most spiritual tea and butter swiches of my life while reading the cover job of The Age on Sunday (Masala Girl). A moment of clarity arrived as I beamed through the last lines and cleared the tumbler of the last noisy draft complete with pinky finger out. Food was lost to my life equation for years. Sure there's been more tabac than usual these past months, but tea swiches and the cover job at 2:39 pm struck me to conversion with twitches to my right eye. I shall eat well and dreak tea and stop at nothing.
...
Picked up 'The Joy Luck Club' on Sunday at the Strand Book ostensible Sale. But this was after attending this book club meeting a feind had invited me to at Barista's, Saint Mark's at 11 am. Well to begin with there wasnt anyone around at Barista's except some fascinating trim middleaged guy who looked like a travel writer and was thinking comfortably alone. I thought maybe this was my comeuppance for all my standups to all kinds. Came back a second time shuffled to the counter, asked for a cold coffee, controlled a tremor at the casual 'thats Rs.45' and went back to my seat, back towards the travel writer. A club did cobble together but the crazed friend didnt turn up -huh. Right f. And the travelwriter wasnt part of it. Put on a brave casual show though I think got highly strung on one point too pointless. Shuffled out at the conclusion and sped to Strand. Climbed to the 10th floor; hauha -noone else tried that with me i noticed; trailblazer of popular missions. Supermarket carry baskets I saw! Moneyed drumfaces casually flicked books into carts. So after sham displays of picking up several books and walking around with them, chucked all of them except one into a cardbord box under the paytable. And yes, that vun book vas? - The Joy Luck Club (Amy tan)
...
Sorry to have to miss the talk on Derrida today.

Saturday, November 27, 2004

Spark plugged and Action

Smacked her lips after turning the last page of Spark. Got her sheaves laminated and bound the previous day. No print shop did comb binding. After Spark, scrounged about the empty house for food; only a packet of sickening 'milk' peanuts guaranteed to induce the world's most vigorous nausea. Popped six; withheld. Plugging spark means victory march to tie up other mountains. Script comes back into view. Another week of pointless compliments but commitment throughout. And if the earth shakes and our world breaks, she will then be the lady of life. For self and all.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Deflowering Demystified

Just a door opening
a crack.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Wherefore Love?

Sunday, November 21, 2004

A case of malinchismo?


Frida Kahlo came to mind for the harrowing staking at 18 which has to rate as the most known horrific accidents survived whose victim went on to make it stellar for something else. At 6 diagnosed with polio which left her right leg withered; it is also understood she suffered from congenital scoliosis of the spine. Then the dramatic trolley accident:
The bus she was riding in collided with a trolley car; she was found in the wreckage impaled on a metal handrail; the rod had entered her spine in 3 places, boring through her left hip before exiting through the vagina. Her ribs collarbone and hip were fractured, right foot dislocated and crushed, and right leg broken in 11 places. Apart the deep abdominal gash.
Her story hereon's well documented. The confessional artwork - largely self-portraiture, marriage to the celebrated eccentric muralist Diego Rivero, loud liasons, bohemian living and what was considered by decreeing Western circles as captivating good looks. I see a lot of articles around that paint her all kinds of colors, and while there's an explanation for her enforced primitivism, I particularly wonder at writeups that paint her brown, when she was, cascading black hair notwithstanding, quite criollo. What explains this color muddling?

Racism in Latin America
If this is something that hasn't struck you before it's because the Latin American establishment and bizzarely enough the victims themselves are in denial about and accomplices to racism. Mexicos's racial breakup is something like: indios (indigenous) - 10%, mestizos (mix) - 80%, and criollos (white) - 10%. Most mestizos prefer not to trouble themselves with the Indian fraction of their identity - preferring if lucky to pass for white (with the great genetic hybridization among the mestizos, racism is also intra-familial). The criollos are direct descendants of the Spanish and have over the years maintained a certain racial purity, and as it turns out it's the criollos who are disproportinately represented in positions of influence in commerce and government, in fact their representation and control is a majority. The ideal of beauty for many Mexicans is mainstream European; native features are considered feo(ugly):
"Turn on any television program, examine the advertisements in any magazine or newspaper, look at the billboards. You would hardly know you’re in Mexico. Almost all the persons in the ads are lily-white, of pure European extraction. Very occasionally, one might encounter a mestizo. But never a Tzeltal or Tarahumara or Purépecha or Yaqui." http://www.worldpolicy.org/globalrights/mexico/1994-0211-gazette-racism.html

As Jose Agustin says in his article, what makes the situation iniquitous is that unlike in India where it was accepted that the caste system was enshrined in India's belief leads - so in a sense tagged, this racial division is enshrined nowhere in Mexican life; it was just a natural condition, which means if it isn't a problem the law doesn't address it; so no token affirmative action like reservation. Why should the silence of the majority be troubling? Maybe because having chosen to ignore their vital history theyre condemned to repeat it: Aztec emperor Moctezuma himself mistook Cortes for the god Quetzalcoatl before being eviscreated along with his empire. Cultural diveristy was played down and Spanish decreed national langugage (like Hindi here). Which is why the Zappatista rebellion in Chiapas is a necessary and good thing.

The point??

So, hoping not to seem vituperative, have to object to descriptions of Kahlo as the regular brown Mexican about town. Kahlo was by all accounts comfortably (or had well made it to) criolla, her father was Hungarian and mother half-Spanish; even her own stylised later traditional getup and hairfix was a careful construct towards a defined primitive persona - a move husband Rivera strongly advised: he stressed "the Indian aspects of her heritage" http://www.leninimports.com/frida_kahlo_bio.html: as much about ensuring a credibility in art circles as about creating an identity. She goaded the myth along. So lets agree that in the context she was from the start necessarily elevated for a color that empowered and anointed in the context. A kind of pre-destination to pioneer, conquer. To take away nothing at all from her greatness in any circumstances. But if this was going to be the accepted ideal of Mexico, honored within and toasted abroad, what was it saying?

...
On the subject of race/color, rags like TOI and unfortunately even Deccan (for their perpelexing loyalty to contributors primarily the miserable Marianne de Nazareth) show what, not just straining ambivalence but unbridled euphoria at the sighting of preferred but rare racial traits in this city, can descend into. A leap of their inconsequential hearts so absurd not worthy of a replay here.
...

References:
http://www.findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m0AZV/is_4_41/ai_97724256/pg_2
http://www.globalexchange.org/countries/mexico/racism.html
http://www.worldpolicy.org/globalrights/mexico/1994-0211-gazette-racism.html
http://www.counterpunch.org/russell01252003.html
http://www.nmwa.org/collection/profile.asp?LinkID=471

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Mudding it

Observer this Sunday had it all going for commited organic archi afficionads. So the archi section featured Mud, mud, glorious mud by Deyan Sudjic. Home in focus: Nicholas Worsley's Worcester home designed by John Christophers of Associated Architects. Worsley's home looks much like the adobe abodes of the drier tropics and almost awkward with what just could pass for the corrugated asbestos sheet slap popular in Bangalore's tenements. (Sorry, the sheets on quite a few or not too bad). But this is a fashionably withdrawn and aware comission so it's really a good right corrugated iron lid. Within, all water-fed appliances use rainwater collected from the roof. And naturally it observes all caution to forestall mud run-off which danger reads: ruboff; so theres the plinth and the roof doing their job.
The most wonderful thing about mud homes, is all the fun you have working on it. Hear it from Worsley (can tell you a bit for my part too):
'...was like making mud pies, glorious fun and satisfyingly low-tech. You just pitch-fork it on in piles, leave it 10 days and then finish it off with a sharp spade.'
The Worsley man as you may have guessed from the whole fanciful restraint, is NOT cash strapped. And Sudjic will have his opinions too, rightly tripping the display of high-minded concern with the fuel progligacy in trips from the suburbs. Worlsey confesses he bypasses the territorial trudge altogether with 'low-cost' flights to his OTHER house in France. There's also the token regret of not weaving in windpower or photvoltaics into his superhouse.

Grass on the Roof
Then there was Chris Patridges' Grass is greener on the roof. We've seen it around in the city a lot, overhanging branches and gritty roofs have just happened this pleasant arrangement. But to really see it work in a nice commercially sensible way, it's nice to play planner (everything by design) and watch it pan out. Grass roofs been hot in Germany for some time now. So it's this skin of earth (in-situ soil) on the roof sown with sedums (not really grass); helps trap rain which would otherwise run off. The roof structure would generally feature a ridge beam 2ft. in diameter and closely-set joists. They say Rolls Royce has a factory featuring this; the homes i think are nicer things to hold up. Give me a moment I'm putting up the pic.

---
Someone advised me something on finding the magic lantern inside. Wonder if he knew it's defined this way in Film Studies: 'a projection system comprised of a light source and a lens and used to project an image. Ususally oil-lamp fired, though many were later converted to electricity. Earliest known use was by Athanasius Kircher, recorded in a work published in 1646.' Apart all the potentially smart ripostes, if the contraption I carried around were so elab heavy-duty, shouldn't I know it? cwoooah, I tell ya.
---
Swathes of city bangalore with piling rubble and epic pavements resemble what we see from photos of NYC in the first decade of the 20th century. And mr.mayor and mr.absent planner: that's an insult.
---
Heard of the 'anal phase'?
aÆnal phaseÅ,
Psychoanal. the second stage of psychosexual development during which the child, usually at two years of age, becomes preoccupied with defecation.
Make sense. Whats with doing something and passing on like nothing ever happenend? How long can you ignore it? Tell me.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Loitering with Intent



It's the first time it's ever happened. I smiled through every page I read. Muriel Spark's Loitering with Intent('81). The lady now a gracious 86, grows more thrilling with time. Star in our sunset; how can I thank you?

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Temple of Time

My first 'public' orgasm was in the lab cubby of a signature louis kahn. So I owe it to my appetite for the study of architecture and to this previous revelatory release to perk up at anything that informs me on this man. It would be said that his was a tragic life by the way it concluded - in so fa as dying destitute, ailing and unclaimed in the city of your love, is the truth to plaineyes. Because there may be his story: he would have it just that way: so what adulation, and position at his bidding, it was all about self-realization - that uncertain ideal we're taught for years that we're soon disabused of or sooner shed. Son, Nathaniel Kahn directs My Architect a discovery of a father who wasn't available for the lesser roles known to bind flights of the mind. And when this is the only way you work - who can blame?
An earnest journey to find and forgive a real absence in the son's early life that cast a shadow through to this search. Doubt how so public a journey can lay to rest the demons but there will be moments of illumination.

just doll up and play blasé,
and who, tell, can a girl not lay?

Monday, November 15, 2004

Sinead - 'Nothing compares'



Get the CD - better watched, best live! Said a while back she's out of the biz for good. For the record: often called a one-hit wonder, watch her and tell yourself it was enough for a lifetime. ["at the few gigs she played on the Lollapalooza tour of 1995, word was she stopped the concert cold, felling the otherwise rowdy crowd with her wonderful voice alone." - Gina Arnold,metroactive.com]
The truth is she put the passion of existences into the first cut - look back to the shattering tearful Prince-penned Nothing compares 2 U. If her hitting an imagined ceiling has to be studied like it mattered, 2 things stood in the way: her outspokeness and her ardor. Tear up a print of the pope, krishna, king david or khomeni and who are you letting down? Tell the great American public that makes the final call on an artist's defining last conquest. Or was the stock spoiler an establishment conspiracy but she was famously booed off stage at the Bob Dylan concert days later. Giant. Forget the Rock Hall of Fame, she's made it. Frat figureheads concede her's been the most disturbing powerful and moving voices of all rock music. Take it from here.
Discography:
-The Lion and the Cobra (1988)
-I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got (1990)
-Am I Not Your Girl (1992)
-Universal Mother (1994)
-Gospel Oak (1997)
-The Best Of Sinéad O'Connor (1997)
-Faith And Courage (2000)
-Sean-Nos Nua (2002)

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Shed of Bangalore



Top charmer and really second most respected style of this city after the gothic revival things, and should be a set of blueprints on this available to all featherbrained contractors doubling as architects on a bungalow-of-sorts comission. The shed and variations very close in my opinion to prairie, works surprisingly well with blore's brooding tropical vegetation crowding in on it. Difficult to get it wrong even if poor finishing means only at the removed urban view. With the xception of the porches and columns, see it as modernist twist to the 'California' bungalow. Coincidence?

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Bam Bam - anything you want!

Had to clear out of the guestroom for vistors. It's a couple whove arrived from Bombay with their 13th child. yes, 13th child. the other 12 are at their home in bombay; studying and looking after eachother: the eldest few in medical school and engg school - relatives popping in. The lady says she averages a kid a year. no comments. Must respect everybody's choices. And to be truthful she's devastatingly chic - maybe thats what having a baby a year does for the looks? Children keep the soul young? soul keeps the body? Fish - got to get back to the script biz.
...
Right now at lunch which Ive refused to attend, 132 people are ogling at the every bumbling antic of the 3-month old 13th child while they try eating. Babies are cute but i'm not going to be the 133rd. Look she's happy! Look she's laughing! Look she's looking! lovely - prefer a one-to-one thanks. The mother-earth chic has a statistical ambition for her nation-state, so to a query she dishes - 'this one's' only 3 months. Expanding horizons of an objectivist cult.
...
Theyre having lunch at the table now with the baby gurgling all over at the frantic newness of everything; everyone has a design on the 3month old; behind a plastic grin daddy plotting to foot spank its tiny bottom when it comes to view, mother beaming in the last minute of her cunning tolerance, sister being tender and businesslike about its charade; its parents expoilting their baby-owner license to poke about. And me wondering how might this situation have panned in a different world with different structures? Maybe lunchtime would be: mother chic seats herself at the table, dramatically lifts her shirt to reveal her left bosom to suckle her 3monther; husband priding, daddy ogling, mummy reaching out to whack mother chic with the nearest plate, sister mooning, and me bamming them all with a bam!bam! gun.

Monday, November 08, 2004


(copyrighted to King Features Syndicate)

Her gravelly sniffs make me thirsty:
mum put on the sari will ya, he's waiting
how many years, sort it out, how may times
will you fight on taking your line?
In every moment youre only escaping:
what when he dies and you remain - a tantrum woman
alone. still fixing her pleats.

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Monsieur Ibrahim et les fleurs du Coran


When it was all to be had, life was and continues to be arranged round radio plays and noone's complaining when the 30-yr panasonic is perpetually locked into beebie's offering. There are 2 that will be remembered for a very long time: What makes Sammy run and Monsieur Ibrahim et les fleurs de Coran. The second i heard only a month back. Both radio adaptations. Lets pick Monsieur Ibrahim shall? Here's up a poster of the film version I hears been done a time back, starring Omar Sharief and going by it seems the right mix of eyecandy and wistful perfect color contrasts. Thats just why you have to catch the radioplay read by the brilliant Henry Goodman; where the colors, truths and shadows are your fabulist call. Monsieur Ibrahim's very like Malena as well in its background comingofage thread only more rugged, truthful, timorous, inexact, wrenching, tender. To be walked out on by your own father and find mystery in the streetstoreman enough to adopt him? Criticism has been on the lines of it being noncommital on religion but the flake is that? Not for a story to sort out the sordid.

Some people, you never hear. Until theyre dead

But Theo van Gogh shared his name with his great-great-grandfather, brother of artist Vincent van Gogh so the hell am i saying? Truly I thought only 2 things were possible when I heard about his contro work when he was still alive: the community in 'focus' in Netherlands were liberal, or, he would be liquidated anyway. Guess what happened? And it wasnt even an outside job.


theo
Theo van Gogh, director of a controversial film about Islamic culture, was stabbed and shot dead in Amsterdam; the film was written by Hirsi Ali, MP for the Liberal Party in the Netherlands, who has been a strong opponent of Islam's treatment of women. Both had been receiving death threats.


ali

Friday, November 05, 2004

Dis blidding grace

Dis figging grace

So he cries you piddleworths, look in
He's a woman - was always - within
Raped pillows, brown beds, tired hands, torn cheds
She's a man, a chimp, eight heads.


Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Drinking in Homes with Boys

The house was dark, music sufficiently evil and bottles and people clinking. No one sicking yet. This was potluck grind night. So all had to bring their own drinks and nibbles; pool and pick what they could. The Indian guys hid what theyd bought while induging gleefully in the partiness. Ignatz stayed away assidiously from this breed even though all of the specimens in attendance here fit the bill of the singularly superior arty Indian male she continued to covet since middleschool. But with a nation of artistically white girls in attendance the indian boys had fantasized about all their life, she didnt think of her chances.

Ignatz held her two 1-litre beer bottles in each hand. She had also bought a keg of triple distilled vodka but never had a taste for it so left it at the trestle for the bots who had the metal for meth. In 15 minutes, Iggie noticed she was the only one standing gawking in the music and darkness. Everything else was doing something: sofas bouncing, bottles rolling, sexoids pawing at do or dare, girl scuffing boy, man's eyes transfixed on active shirt puppies he would hold very soon. And Iggie mooning at it all, standing up drinking out of her bottle. She thought:
3 green botles standing on the wall
One named Peter, one named Paul ...
Iggie considered sitting against the wall like the loser at every party; usually every party had one but the established routine of Iggy's karma meant that the moment she had settled into her place on the wall, everyone and the music would stop, lights come on and theyd look at her with her swimmimg happy features looking back. So Ignatz walked straight to the sofa and wedged herself into the edge, a bottle in either hand. After a mouthful and head lolling from the arm of the sofa, she twisted her head to the side to spy resident activity: next to her a pale hominid with his left hand nestled comfortable under a girl's butt that belonged to the man on the other side of her. 2 more gulpfuls. Iggy's own butt discouraged such acqaintance. It reeked divinity, a kind of otherworldly glow. Halo on the butt. Maybe thats what came from being named after the patron saint of virginity.

Leaning over the sette arm she looked overboard outward, hetro matches were so much more animated and exciting to watch, the real thing; like what is to what. On a sofa-bed that was still a sofa, and efficiently populated a girl had straddled her own or another's indifferent male. He held her with the goodwill for a neighbour's 2-year old. She settled her fine behind on his knees and they exchanged eyes, then they looked and looked and she moved forward at an inch a second till her bust was upon him.

Then Ignatz recoiled sharply sideways, her forelimbs held up short like a T-rex; something sharp had poked her in the intercostals between the 6th and 7th ribs on her left. She let out a sound like: BEeyaahhaw. As she swung, the bottle in her right hand had swung firmly into paleface's chest with a bony knock. Ouch. While Iggy looked on mortified, paleface looked blank for a second before slapping both his hands to his chest and howling loudly. Iggy tried to shut him up rubbing his face but to see that the bottles would not be out of supervision, she first pushed the 2 bottles to stand between his locked thighs, before she resumed her effort to muzzle him. There was no let-up, he wailed like a siren and the music seemed to be doing the same. Instinctively, Iggy looked around frantically to see if anyone had noticed. None. Thanks Mama! This put Iggy at ease and she began to observe paleface's dramatics detachedly. Was he paining truly? This time Iggy clamped his mouth with both hands. For more mechanical efficiency in clamping both nose and mouth at once, Iggy stood up half-way over him on the sofa, legs on either side of paleface cupping his snout. This worked, there was not a sound as he looked on with extreme meerkat eyes at towering Ignatz.

But Iggy seemed to have forgetten his hands that had till then been plastered to his chest; they popped out like an industrial spring. In the space of a blink she began moving back in freefall, hallowed butt and lower back hit the erect beertowers between his legs, throwing up her legs in the greatest acrobatic move of her life, her head knocked the floor and she looked at the ceiling in peace. Hands stretched wide, she lay at paleface's feet Christ-like while he held up his arms significantly in an expression of 'What the' and 'shit?' while the 2 bottles stood in singular magnificence between his thighs.
This pleased her before blank.



Animus



As I am to soon adopt a pet of the mammalian kind (having experience already with freeloading reptiles), it's a good time to widen the eyes and hehe at some dyks:

-King Penguins living on remote islands have been known to fall over backwards with shock after first laying eyes on a human being

-The only animal with four knees is the elephant

(Dyk courtesy: True Animal Tales by Rolf Harris)

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

omg

Took in 2 fags at one go 4 minutes after waking up. This sounds so like teenyboppy desperation what on this sucked earth is Ignatz living it over again for? Must complete the library. Must connect to perceived connectors in the capital. Killed the Citibank manager at 11am. Some relief but her composure took the fire out of it. Cant imagine the number of male thighs I rubbed against so liberally in the packed bank today without being taken for a slut.
Blown out fell into bed woke up looked at the books and arrive on a certain revelation: Samskara by Ananthmurthy may be a ripoff Hesse's Siddhartha! Think of it - I'll extract a bit tommorow - u decide.