I stole the Cookies from the Cookie Jar

2010-12-25T09:20:00.000-08:00

Because Riddhi asked, so nicely.

My list of recommendations for the fast fading year. Based on my own prized discoveries and rediscoveries of the last few months.

(Muzique)

I Shall Be Released- Bob Dylan

At This Moment- Michael Buble

Bach's Canon in D Major

O Fortuna- Carl Orff (If you've watched more than ten movies in your life, you'll DEFINITELY recognise this one when you hear it.)

High Noon Ballad- Tex Ritter

O'Children- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Tore My Heart-Oona and Dave Tweedie

Trust Me- Janis Joplin

If Love is a Red Dress- Maria McKee

(Litturetchur)

The Name of the Rose-Umberto Eco

Cannery Row- Steinbeck

Franny and Zooey- J.D. Salinger

The Leopard- Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa

Short stories by Katherine Mansfield and Truman Capote

Poetry by Rainer Maria Rilke, Yehuda Amichai, Walt Whitman, Gerard Manley Hopkins, 'The Hollow Men' (Eliot)

(Philims)

American Beauty

Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern are Dead (And this demands, well at least suggests, a reading of Hamlet)

In the light of recent fires

2010-03-25T07:43:00.001-07:00

I felt I had to post this. Especially after reading today's newspaper front page.

The Identification

So you think its Stephen?

Then I'd best make sure

Be on the safe side as it were.

Ah, theres been a mistake. The hair

you see, its black, now Stephens fair ...

Whats that? The explosion?

Of course, burnt black. Silly of me.

I should have known. Then lets get on.

The face, is that the face mask?

that mask of charred wood

blistered scarred could

that have been a child's face?

The sweater, where intact, looks

in fact all too familiar.

But one must be sure.

The scoutbelt. Yes thats his.

I recognise the studs he hammered in

not a week ago. At the age

when boys get clothes-conscious

now you know. Its almost

certainly Stephen. But one must

be sure. Remove all trace of doubt.

Pull out every splinter of hope.

Pockets. Empty the pockets.

Handkerchief? Could be any schoolboy's.

Dirty enough. Cigarettes?

Oh this can't be Stephen.

I dont allow him to smoke you see.

He wouldn't disobey me. Not his father.

But that's his penknife. Thats his alright.

And thats his key on the keyring

Gran gave him just the other night.

Then this must be him.

I think I know what happened

... ... ... about the cigarettes

No doubt he was minding them

for one of the older boys.

Yes thats it.

Thats him.

Thats our Stephen.

Roger McGough

2010-01-28T06:41:00.000-08:00

I was going to download Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21. And in the first result generated by Limewire, the composer's name was spelled 'Motzart.' Yes, 'Motzart.' Ususally, people read words first and pronounce them wrong. Hence, you hear 'Chop-in', 'Batch' and a refusal to go down Tchaikovsky street. There are Bangalis who say 'La Vega' for Las Vegas, EXPECTING a fancy-ass, exotic pronunciation.

But this filesharer (bless his generosity) must have heard the name before he ever saw it written. Funny kind of mistake. Or maybe I'm just not used to to it.

And this is why I think Oscar Wilde is Great, and not just veryveryvery good.

2010-01-21T18:38:00.000-08:00

"When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.

And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair and cried to the pool and said, `We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.'

`But was Narcissus beautiful?' said the pool.

`Who should know that better than you?' answered the Oreads. `Us did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty.'

And the pool answered, `But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored.''

(The Disciple, from 'Poems in Prose')

2009-10-25T19:44:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8y3_X6Ia7Q

I want to learn the Rumba; I do, I do. It is like making love on the dance floor, in the purest, most ethereal way possible. What sensuality these people have, what grace! While lesser mortals like me stew in our swamp of awkwardness >.<

2009-09-15T06:23:00.001-07:00

I came across this quite unexpectedly. And I really liked it.

The Seed-Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,

Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,

Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -

Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;

A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust

That will drink deeply of a century's streams;

These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,

Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;

Here I can blow a garden with my breath,

And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

Muriel Stuart

This Is Just To Say

2009-08-02T10:18:00.001-07:00

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast.

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

-- William Carlos Williams

On Reading Howards End

2009-07-10T22:38:00.000-07:00

Since I had already studied 'A Passage to India' for Elective English at school, 'Howards End' (all and complete chapters provided by the link) was not my introduction to Forster. But yet again, I'm struck by this man's ability to put the abstract into words. Correction. Comprehensible words.

When I read Forster, I feel like he just reaches into my head and with ease, lays out all my thoughts on his pages. And all of a sudden, the thoughts become much much more coherent, significant, and even poetic. I feel that this newfound and positively startling clarity, is not the result of scrutiny or analysis. What he does, is much more beautiful than pedantic deconstruction. What he does, is express our thoughts in terms of language. No matter how much we say we're confused, most of the time we know how we feel. Every ebb and flow of our emotions, every inner pulse and tremor, all send some kind of alert that shoots into our consciousness. We can detect in our heads, parallel strands of contradictory feelings. We can perceive distinctly the waves of alternating thought that wash over us. The only reason why these emotions appear to be a tangled heap, is because we can't represent them in terms of known objects. Forster can. In this case, the 'known objects' are words.

And the structure of his novels are fascinating too. Our so called 'spiritual' world- not to be confused with the religious or the supernatural- is captured in all it's spontaneity and ephemeralness. It isn't compartmentalized into neat, brown-paper-wrapped boxes, all for the sake of creating a tight, wholesome plot. Yet, the contradictions aren't confusing, and the impulses and whims of the characters are engaging rather than ridiculous. When a character does something unexpected, it seems more of an astounding quirk rather than a jarring element. Each word adds layers, and each layer adds richness. And together, the layers call out to us, to unravel them and widen our view on the world. Not once do these layers weigh down on us, restricting our vision.

But interestingly, the plot IS tight and wholesome. Little events at the opening tie up to major incidents in the end. Unobtrusive details gently speak as symbols for overwhelming themes. The tension and shock are present just to the right degree- they stir without stifling. And the flux and abstractions finally build up to a firm, satisfying conclusion, which allows peace and catharsis without being overly tidy.

And then there is the subtle satire, the sharp and sparkling wit, the omniscient voice of the narrator that cajoles you into reading between the lines while making you feel YOUR fine-tuned perception has triumphed in doing so.

All this makes Howards End seem quite heavy. And it could be, it could easily be. But there's one thing that stops it from being so-- charm. It's got that twinkle in the eye that stops you from hating the dusty old lecturer. It's got that mellow note of warmth that stops you from hating the sterilized old dentist. The sense of history, mood and atmosphere is captivating. You can hear the chink of crystal, the clink of fork against china plate, the boom and tinkle of a piano. And you can hear the more uplifting sounds of nature- the breathing of the river, the whispers in the field, the laughter of the stars.

There is a widely acclaimed movie on this book, featuring Anthony Hopkins, Vanessa Redgrave, Emma Thompson and Helena Bonham Carter, among others.

Wow, right? Quite. And it's a well-made movie. It's just that Forster novels shouldn't be made into movies. Or rather, people should NEVER watch a movie on a Forster novel if they've already read the source. If my review has made any sense, you should understand why.

2009-07-03T08:57:00.000-07:00

A still from The Wall (movie.) Always scares me.

Thank You, Shalmi...

2009-07-02T06:03:00.000-07:00

.... for passing on the love.

This poem made MY day too.

W.H. Auden - The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total darkness sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

One Cigarette

2009-06-16T01:13:00.000-07:00

No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker's tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.

Edwin Morgan

When I read this, I forget all about going -'Eww no. What do you mean you want a fag?'

Sill I Rise

2009-05-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

Some Black women are very cool. Aretha's one. Maya Angelou's another.

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise.

Maya Angelou

Some art

2009-04-25T03:10:00.000-07:00

Picasso- Girl before a mirror. This makes me feel strangely guilty :P

Matisse- I have a feeling that if he painted my living room, it might end up looking like this.

This is a French style of art called Nabis. I find it really intriguing, especially in close up.

Dance of Life by Edvard Munch (he's best known for 'The Scream', which is makes me feel hysterical and crazy.) I chose to upload this not only because it's less known, but because it's very eerie in a subtle way.

I don't remember who this is by, and realistic art isn't my sort, but this is a curious blend of styles, and it's got a lovely ethereal feel to it. Especially the distant mist. It's reminiscent of the build-up to a storm.

Gaugin, my first love. This isn't typical Gaugin, maybe it's not even my favourite by him, but it's SO vibrant, that I fall in love with it whenever I see it. Just look at the sky. It's like you could scoop it up.

Good old pop art, good old puppydom :D

2009-02-16T07:14:00.000-08:00

2 completely disconnected, completely fascinating things. Even if I do say so myself. I love the way I keep at this blog, despite dearth of comments.

Milgram's experiment on obedience- It is in people's blood to follow orders. CREEPY. REALLY creepy.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milgram_experiment

A hip-hop dance routine between a woman(pretending to be a manequinn) and a man who is trying to bring the manequinn to life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cLdjJYUPc4

Effervescing Elephant- Syd Barrett

2009-02-09T20:30:00.001-08:00

An Effervescing Elephant
with tiny eyes and great big trunk
once whispered to the tiny ear
the ear of one inferior
that by next June he'd die, oh yeah!
because the tiger would roam.
The little one said: "Oh my goodness I must stay at home!
and every time I hear a growl
I'll know the tiger's on the prowl
and I'll be really safe, you know
the elephant he told me so."
Everyone was nervy, oh yeah!
and the message was spread
to zebra, mongoose, and the dirty hippopotamus
who wallowed in the mud and chewed
his spicy hippo-plankton food
and tended to ignore the word
preferring to survey a herd
of stupid water bison, oh yeah!
And all the jungle took fright,
and ran around for all the day and the night
but all in vain, because, you see,
the tiger came and said: "Who me?!
You know, I wouldn't hurt not one of you.
I'd much prefer something to chew
and you're all to scant." oh yeah!
He ate the Elephant

I am now going to say the most cliched thing possible. Syd Barrett, WISH YOU WERE HERE :'(

QuizGalaxy got me.

2009-01-28T00:31:00.000-08:00

Take this quiz at href="http://www.quizgalaxy.com">QuizGalaxy.com


	Anushka Sen walked on water, then discovered that she was the second coming.
	... afterward, Anushka Sen decided to marry her imaginary friend.
	'How will you be remembered in history books?' at QuizGalaxy.com

What is your special ability?
	Your special ability is ... tampering with the evidence

'What is your special ability?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Anushka Sen is mostly likely to say the out-of-date phrase:	Well ain’t that the bee’s knees
To:	Sigmund Freud

Why?	Because you saw them cheat at scrabble
Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Anushka Sen's creature-nemesis:

The Dreaded SHETLAND PONY

'What creature will become your nemesis?' at QuizGalaxy.com

2009-01-26T18:35:00.000-08:00

O.Henry had blogger tendencies!

2009-01-21T20:13:00.001-08:00

He was quite delightfully random. Read this and see for yourself. It's an extract from his short story- 'A Sacrifice Hit.' I've left out some bits in the middle as well (wherever you see a '...')

You can find the full version online.

'The editor of the Hearthstone Magazine has his own ideas about the selection of manuscript for his publication.

...

"The Hearthstone," he will say, "does not employ a staff of readers. We obtain opinions of the manuscripts submitted to us directly from types of the various classes of our readers."

...

When a batch of MSS. is received the editor stuffs every one of his pockets full of them and distributes them as he goes about during the day. The office employees, the hall porter, the janitor, the elevator man, messenger boys, the waiters at the café where the editor has luncheon, the man at the news-stand where he buys his evening paper, the grocer and milkman, the guard on the 5.30 uptown elevated train, the ticket-chopper at Sixty --th street, the cook and maid at his home -- these are the readers who pass upon MSS. sent in to the Hearthstone Magazine. If his pockets are not entirely emptied by the time he reaches the bosom of his family the remaining ones are handed over to his wife to read after the baby goes to sleep. A few days later the editor gathers in the MSS. during his regular rounds and con- siders the verdict of his assorted readers.

...

The Hearthstone Company also publishes books, and its imprint is to be found on several successful works -- all recommended, says the editor, by the Hearthstone'8 army of volunteer readers. Now and then (according to talkative members of the editorial staff) the Hearthstone has allowed manuscripts to slip through its fingers on the advice of its heterogeneous readers, that afterward proved to be famous sellers when brought out by other houses.

For instance (the gossips say), "The Rise and Fall of Silas Latham" was unfavourably passed upon by the elevator-man; the office-boy unanimously rejected "The Boss"; "In the Bishop's Carriage" was contemptuously looked upon by the street-car conductor; "The Deliver- ance" was turned down by a clerk in the subscription department whose wife's mother had just begun a two- months' visit at his home; "The Queen's Quair" came back from the janitor with the comment: "So is the book."

But nevertheless the Hearthstone adheres to its theory and system, and it will never lack volunteer readers; for each one of the widely scattered staff, ... has expectations of becoming editor of the magazine some day.

This method of the Hearthstone was well known to Allen Slayton when he wrote his novelette entitled "Love Is All." ...

He knew (also), that the stories of sentimental love- interest went to Miss Puffkin, the editor's stenographer. ...

Slayton made "Love Is All" the effort of his life. He gave it six months of the best work of his heart and brain. ... Slayton's literary ambition was intense. ... He would almost have cut off his right hand, or have offered himself to the knife of the appendi- citis fancier to have realized his dream of seeing one of his efforts published in the Hearthstone.

Slayton finished "Love Is All," and took it to thy Hearthstone in person. The office of the magazine was in a large, conglomerate building, presided under by a janitor.

...

Slayton took the elevator at the end of the hall and went up to the offices of the Hearthstone. He left the MS. of "Love Is All" with the editor, who agreed to give, him an answer as to its availability at the end of a week.

Slayton formulated his great winning scheme on his way down. It struck him with one brilliant flash, and he could not refrain from admiring his own genius in conceiving the idea. That very night he set about carry- ing it into execution.

Miss Puffkin, the Hearthstone stenographer, boarded in the same house with the author. She was an oldish, thin, exclusive, languishing, sentimental maid; and Slayton had been introduced to her some time before.

The writer's daring and self-sacrificing project was this: He knew that the editor of the Hearthstone relied strongly upon Miss Puffkin's judgment in the manuscript of romantic and sentimental fiction. Her taste represented the immense average of mediocre women who devour novels and stories of that type. The central idea and keynote of "Love Is All" was love at first sight -- the enrapturing, irresistible, soul-thrilling, feeling that com- pels a man or a woman to recognize his or her spirit-mate as soon as heart speaks to heart. Suppose he should impress this divine truth upon Miss Puffkin personally! -- would she not surely indorse her new and rapturous sensations by recommending highly to the editor of the Hearthstone the novelette "Love Is All" ?

Slayton thought so. And that night he took Miss Puffkin to the theatre. The next night he made vehement love to her in the dim parlour of the boarding-house. He quoted freely from "Love Is All"; and he wound up with Miss Puffkin's head on his shoulder, and visions of literary fame dancing in his head.

But Slayton did not stop at love-making. This, he said to himself, was the turning point of his life; and, like a true sportsman, he "went the limit." On Thursday night he and Miss Puffkin walked over to the Big Church in the Middle of the Block and were married.

Brave Slayton! Chateaubriand died in a garret, Byron courted a widow, Keats starved to death, Poe mixed his drinks, De Quincey hit the pipe, Ade lived in Chica-o, James kept on doing it, Dic Kens wore white socks, De Maupassant wore a strait-jacket, Tom Watson became a Populist, Jeremiah wept, all these authors did these things for the sake of literature, but thou didst cap them all; thou marriedst a wife for to carve for thyself a niche in the temple of fame!'

2009-01-15T07:12:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgUjkSToakA&feature=PlayList&p=91224A092F015514&index=0

This is a video someone set to a recitation of 'Lovesong' by Ted Hughes.

This is the poem.

He loved her and she loved him.
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face.

The video seems to have been MADE for the poem. I cannot get over how relevant it is.

And both are really, really freaky.

2009-01-13T00:07:00.000-08:00

Every now and then, I come across some stuff that I'm DYING to share with people.

Stuff along the lines of Music.

Paintings. Quotes. Cartoons.

I realise that I'm sounding like a communist-aesthete cum Readers-Digest-publicist.

I also realise that I'm stuffing your face into a bowl of joy and going- 'ENJOY IT, FREAK!'

Who cares?

On this blog, I will shamelessly put up stuff that I like, and that I think you might like. So yes, that is the explanation behind the mysterious new blog.