Saturday, December 26, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Poetry IV
I recently attended a TFA run poetry and short fiction reading. Annie Zaidi and Saudha Kasim were the readers. I had read some of Annie Zaidi's poems when I found out about Poetry for Prakriti which is being held in Madras and you should check it out if you’re in the city. Poets being featured include: Aditi Machado (who I am a huge fan of), my new favourite- the ethereal Annie Zaidi, Deepika Arivind-whom I find very interesting and many others I wish I could read and will proceed to do so when I have the time. Previous years' readers include Sharanya Manivannan whose poetry can be pretty gut wrenching and raw. I of course, had to in a gut wrenching(not so much) and embarrassing (very much) display of honesty had to tell her so; Meena Kandasamy and Siddharatha Menon-the only male voice whose name stays with me for reasons I think A will appreciate.
I should mention that I am spending much of my time reading these young female, Indian writers more than anyone else. I’m not sure why it’s happening this way but I seem to have developed an ear and eye for female, young and strictly Indian voices. I’m not sure if this is delayed patriotism or just the shared cultural context that makes it easy to relate to, but I find myself being increasingly inspired by them in comparison to other writers I come across in all my blog surfing. But even this explanation is far too simplistic. After all India is a freaking battlefield of cultures-just the last name of a poet has implications on how you read his or her poetry. And though this does not say much about that person’s context as much as it says about your understanding of that context, I find I am being influenced more by the poetry of these writers than anybody else’s. Take PFFA for instance, it is a world of poetry and by world I literally mean world-poets from all over write here and though I get my daily dose of poetry from them I find that a lot of the work posted here doesn’t stay with me.
So my point is: bells just ring in my head when I hear female, young, Indian poet. I guess it could also be because that is the identity I want to eventually cultivate, though I wasn’t aware of it until I wrote this sentence. Talk about your stream of consciousness!
Anyway getting to the reading, I had found Annie’s poems to be very interesting, different in their style and tone when I first read them. There is an underlying tone of humour in her poems- whether she talks about love or pain, the city or the trials of rustic(her words not mine) lovers’ lives. But all this becomes more effective you hear her read them out loud.
I realised what a difference the reading of a poem does to the piece. It links the poet inextricably to her poem. It becomes difficult to separate one's reaction to the poem and the poet. When one reads a poem (like on paper) though much of one's reaction does spill over to the poet it is solely directed at the poem-as a separate entity. Because it stands by itself- tiny inky black figures dreadfully stark against the white blank background with nothing to support them. The mark of a good poem is of course, that it doesn't need you to jump in and explain why.
I always tend to use the mother-child analogy when I think of poets and their poems. Our reading of a poem definitely mirrors how one might feel about a child and though this has implications on how one feels about his/her mother-it’s never the same reaction. (How many times have we willed a bawling child to shut up and gazed with pity at the struggling mother?) Poets and their poems do not get the same reaction. Unless, of course they are terrible! In which case I will judge you by your poem. I judge me by my poems too so I can be forgiven (I hope!).
But anyway, on paper, after a point it ceases to matter whether the poet was a terrible human being or done terrible things. Especially when it’s a great piece of art. Art gets a little divorced from the person. It stands on its own-if good. Now this of course I can see when it’s on paper, or as I have been witnessing it-on the Internet. But my struggle, okay not struggle but that separatedness (I can make up words okay?) seems less possible when the poet/writer reads out her/his own work. Annie’s reading of her own poetry made a difference. I now know these are her poems and though it does not completely stop me from placing myself in them there is a reserve. As she read them, she had her own inflections, lilts added here and there and a sort of musical quality that would be foolish to attempt to get rid off now. But I wonder if this is something that one can move past.
One audience member after congratulating her, promptly asked her why there was a tone of sarcasm in her poems. I was surprised when I heard this. I haven’t read the poems Annie read that day but I wasn’t aware of any sarcasm in her poetry. A great deal of humour displaying a fondness for what she was talking about-that was what came through. Now the reason why I bring this up is because I wonder how much of my seeing fondness and affection had to do with the manner in which she read the poems. Was it the poem or her? If I were to read these poems by myself would they read differently? Will I find that I like them less? I doubt it. Well okay, I hope not. But all this does bring me back to my rather involved point-does the reading of a poem change the way we understand a poem? And how? If for instance say the lady in the audience, had she read the poem would we see a sarcastic, aloof take on love? If so, then how independent are our poems from us? And- do we even want them to be?
I'm pretty sure I had a point here but I seem to have lost it. It seems rather obvious doesn't it?
***
Why did I think I had a point?
I should mention that I am spending much of my time reading these young female, Indian writers more than anyone else. I’m not sure why it’s happening this way but I seem to have developed an ear and eye for female, young and strictly Indian voices. I’m not sure if this is delayed patriotism or just the shared cultural context that makes it easy to relate to, but I find myself being increasingly inspired by them in comparison to other writers I come across in all my blog surfing. But even this explanation is far too simplistic. After all India is a freaking battlefield of cultures-just the last name of a poet has implications on how you read his or her poetry. And though this does not say much about that person’s context as much as it says about your understanding of that context, I find I am being influenced more by the poetry of these writers than anybody else’s. Take PFFA for instance, it is a world of poetry and by world I literally mean world-poets from all over write here and though I get my daily dose of poetry from them I find that a lot of the work posted here doesn’t stay with me.
So my point is: bells just ring in my head when I hear female, young, Indian poet. I guess it could also be because that is the identity I want to eventually cultivate, though I wasn’t aware of it until I wrote this sentence. Talk about your stream of consciousness!
Anyway getting to the reading, I had found Annie’s poems to be very interesting, different in their style and tone when I first read them. There is an underlying tone of humour in her poems- whether she talks about love or pain, the city or the trials of rustic(her words not mine) lovers’ lives. But all this becomes more effective you hear her read them out loud.
I realised what a difference the reading of a poem does to the piece. It links the poet inextricably to her poem. It becomes difficult to separate one's reaction to the poem and the poet. When one reads a poem (like on paper) though much of one's reaction does spill over to the poet it is solely directed at the poem-as a separate entity. Because it stands by itself- tiny inky black figures dreadfully stark against the white blank background with nothing to support them. The mark of a good poem is of course, that it doesn't need you to jump in and explain why.
I always tend to use the mother-child analogy when I think of poets and their poems. Our reading of a poem definitely mirrors how one might feel about a child and though this has implications on how one feels about his/her mother-it’s never the same reaction. (How many times have we willed a bawling child to shut up and gazed with pity at the struggling mother?) Poets and their poems do not get the same reaction. Unless, of course they are terrible! In which case I will judge you by your poem. I judge me by my poems too so I can be forgiven (I hope!).
But anyway, on paper, after a point it ceases to matter whether the poet was a terrible human being or done terrible things. Especially when it’s a great piece of art. Art gets a little divorced from the person. It stands on its own-if good. Now this of course I can see when it’s on paper, or as I have been witnessing it-on the Internet. But my struggle, okay not struggle but that separatedness (I can make up words okay?) seems less possible when the poet/writer reads out her/his own work. Annie’s reading of her own poetry made a difference. I now know these are her poems and though it does not completely stop me from placing myself in them there is a reserve. As she read them, she had her own inflections, lilts added here and there and a sort of musical quality that would be foolish to attempt to get rid off now. But I wonder if this is something that one can move past.
One audience member after congratulating her, promptly asked her why there was a tone of sarcasm in her poems. I was surprised when I heard this. I haven’t read the poems Annie read that day but I wasn’t aware of any sarcasm in her poetry. A great deal of humour displaying a fondness for what she was talking about-that was what came through. Now the reason why I bring this up is because I wonder how much of my seeing fondness and affection had to do with the manner in which she read the poems. Was it the poem or her? If I were to read these poems by myself would they read differently? Will I find that I like them less? I doubt it. Well okay, I hope not. But all this does bring me back to my rather involved point-does the reading of a poem change the way we understand a poem? And how? If for instance say the lady in the audience, had she read the poem would we see a sarcastic, aloof take on love? If so, then how independent are our poems from us? And- do we even want them to be?
I'm pretty sure I had a point here but I seem to have lost it. It seems rather obvious doesn't it?
***
Why did I think I had a point?
Monday, December 21, 2009
The year end.
Every time I start with a blog post there’s always a purpose -I’m not sure whether this ever comes across but I always start with the best of intentions. I’m starting this one without having anything particular to say.
It’s the year end and looking back on what has probably been my most memorable (oxymoronic-I’m getting some secret pleasure out of knowing that I’m the only one who gets this in its entirety) year yet, I am taking some time to contemplate my fingers. And my toes. I feel like they should have changed in some obvious way because they do feel different. My entire body feels different.
So maybe I’ll run through this year, though a lot of it is still in a haze.This is of course very personal and very boring for anyone who doesn’t know me (who am I kidding? It’s boring for those that do as well):
January: Something changed imperceptibly when poetry began in me. Tiny Dancer came alive for the first time and I started something that a lot of people have frequently scratched their heads about since. “You write?? Whaaa? I didn’t know!“ Neither did I.
February:
March: Addictions began to tell their toll and we began faltering for the first time. Though when I think about it… it probably began a long, long time ago.
April: Exams and Vivas should have taken the forefront but they didn’t.
May: A reprise in Shimla. An explosion in
June: Even
July: Employment, finally!
August: Shillong, Shillong Shillong.
September: Work blues. Joined PFFA and began to take writing a lot more seriously. I also had my first real epiphany about what craft is and the bullshit that people pass off as craft. I think this really marked my growing up-if not as a writer then definitely in how I view the world. Contrary to my previously held but flimsy opinion, this did not make poetry any less beautiful to me. Also of importance, this month marked the birth of this blog.
October: Conoor, A Cats eye generated epiphany.
November: Hazy-why can’t I remember? Oh yes-a reunion leaving me itchy. A breakup (?) leaving me dumbfounded. Somehow along the way apathy set in and I am officially disillusioned.
December: Musing on the year end and wondering what I would have changed about it. I wish I could say I had no regrets. But if anything, this year has been filled with events I wish I could erase.
Well this ended up pretty purposeful.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Edna St. Vincent Millay
If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again --
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man -- who happened to be you --
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud -- I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place --
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.
That you were gone, not to return again --
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man -- who happened to be you --
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud -- I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place --
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Buffy The Vampire Slayer: A New Look
So these days I've been revisiting my teens and watching Buffy The Vampire Slayer all over again. Yes yes I know-how geeky! But I embraced my geekdom a long long time ago. Anyway, now as I am watching it, I realise why I liked it so much. It is a really really good show. Why? Because it always surprised: whether in terms of character development or innovative story lines. But what made Buffy different and what makes it stand out even now is how it addressed story telling. Joss Whedon has made a sincere and mostly successful attempt at changing the way a narrative is relayed on screen. Some episodes have been written so beautifully it is a wonder they haven't received enough credit for them. ( though in the Buffy fan world I think they are definitely revered) Anyway, so I have chosen my top 3 Buffy episodes. Many of them have spoilers so don't read ahead if ..blah blah disclaimer I can't be bothered to type out.
3. Once More With Feeling 6x7
Joss Whedon's musical episode certainly seemed to challenge the actors. No dubbing, just their own voices- some tuneless and some others pleasant to the ear. Okay Sarah Michelle Gellar's (what a long name! henceforth will be referred to as SMG. Sorry I hate it when people do this but well.. too bad!) voice is a little whiny and thin. And out of all the actors it is Amber Benson who has the best voice- quite lovely actually. But all this is immaterial. This episode's strong point is that the actors sang in their own voices. I mean, think about it. If you were in your own musical wouldn't you like to sing in your own voice? Even if your voice made caterwauling cats go deaf? (In my secret musical-often performed in the dark where annoying, squidgy siblings can't reach you with their derisive laughter, I have been Jewel-ya right! and even Tori Amos which doesn't suit me one bit but who cares?) Anyway side stepping that rather long aside-the point of course is, it's your musical so it should be your voice.
What is most interesting is that Whedon chose to do this episode here. This is a pretty rough time for all the characters. So as a musical it is pretty depressing. And well from this episode onwards the characters start losing their grip on things. What happens here is the trigger for what happens later. The story:A demon enters Sunnydale to spread death and destruction(Umm.. duh.) and introduces a little song and dance in the bargain. Good thing? Only thing is, if you dance too long and too hard you burst into flames. Very unwillingly, the characters end up singing about things they would never speak about. Pandora's box opens and the hilarity lasts only as long as the song does. And in some cases not even that long.
I always used to wonder why they never made Alyson Hannigan sing in this episode. All she does is some back up here and there. Then I realised that out of all the characters, Willow is the happiest. Buffy sings about feeling apathetic and well dead to what's happening around her, Spike sings about unrequited love, Tara sings about Willow's betrayal, Giles about his concern for Buffy, Xander and Anya about their marriage related fears and Dawn, well Dawn sings about being a teenager which lets face it, is too complicated to address here. Willow's the only one who is not insecure. She's dabbling in magic she shouldn't be, she's also messing with Tara's head and is in blissful ignorance (rather arrogance) of the consequences to her actions. Actually her arrogance is what makes what happens later so tragic. She also gets her first blow when Buffy reveals that she was never in hell. Anyway definitely one of my favorite episodes. I loved the group song in the beginning. Anya's tirade about the evil bunnies (lol I am imagining innocent little bunnies blinking here) is probably my favorit-est song on this episode.
2. Hush 4x10
Wow! My respect for Whedon really went up (though it was pretty sky high already) when I watched this one. He definitely deserved the Emmy nomination for this one. He might have even deserved to win it. I made my sister watch it recently and she freaked out. How brilliantly brilliantly directed and definitely one of the creepiest episodes ever on the series. So the story is about the Gentlemen- wonderful wonderful make up. So very creepy. From their suits and the perpetually plastered smiles on their faces to the eloquent hand gestures and polite nods they are different from any of the creeps we see on this show. Like my sister said "Monsters should not be refined." So these Gentlemen arrive in Sunnydale to steal people's voices and more. As the rhyme goes:
Most of this episode has no dialogue in it which is what makes it so brilliant. It is absolutely riveting to watch. The characters have lost their voices and the consequences range from hilarious to downright frightening. Take the moment when Xander calls Buffy and realises he can't talk or Buffy who picks up the phone and exasperatedly puts it down when nothing but air comes out of her mouth. Though there is no dialogue there is actually a lot of talking. Violent hand gestures, pithy messages and a hilarious presentation of the case by Giles. The background noise is supplied by dramatic music playing up to whatever is happening in the scene. The music therefore becomes the narration. Of course the scariest thing is that when you scream, no one hears you. I think my favourite parts of this episode have to be: when the characters first realise they are dumb, Xander's misunderstanding with Spike, The Gentlemen floating all over town as if part of some macabre musical and the last part. Definitely the last part. Buffy and Riley finally get to know about each others' identities but when they sit down to talk about it, words fail them as they face each other in what is actually the most silent part of the episode. I don't think I can say enough to do it credit. Watch it in order to understand not just mine but everybody's fascination with it.
1. The Body 5x16
My plan, initially was to have "Hush" top the list but then I watched The Body and I was incredibly moved. I going to try and not gush about this one. I feel like I would do grave insult to the episode by doing this.
This episode picks off from the end of the previous one where Buffy finds her mother lying dead on the couch. The episode is played out in Four Acts. The First Act is done in one long shot. It is a scene that is heartbreaking with its lack of drama (actually the entire episode is) and credit for this must go to SMG. Her initial denial, her regression to childlike behaviour on finding her mother, her panicked phone call to 911, her dazed walk through the house when she is first told her mother is dead to the final scene in the Act when she reacts with horror as she refers to her mother as "the body".
The Second Act relays Dawn's response to the event. While Buffy is put together with cracks showing up in places that hint of a delayed but more devastating breakdown, Dawn's reaction is immediate. She is a child, her mother is dead-her world just falls apart and everybody is there to witness it. I like that Whedon decided to keep the audience away from the dialogue that is going on between Buffy and Dawn when she first tells her what has happened. He allows you to place yourself in that space-what would you say what would your reaction be? Also it is almost like he is doing the decent thing by giving the characters their privacy.
The Third Act shows all their friends' reactions. Of these I find Willow's the most touching. Not only because Alyson Hannigan acts it brilliantly, she was the one I could most identify with. Her reactions: Not knowing what to say to your best friend, panicking about it, not wanting to face it and the endless heartbreaking compassion that one does not want to feel are all essayed brilliantly. This episode is famous for Anya's monologue. Following a spate of inappropriate questions the monologue addresses the confusion and shock we all face when death comes along. Though she is new to being human, Anya has never been anything but when she says she does not know what to do.
The Fourth Act is in the hospital. All the characters have gathered to hear about the cause of death. There is a devastating final scene in the morgue and it is perhaps one of my favourite Buffy endings along with "Hush".
In terms of technique this episode was handled exactly opposite to Hush. While Hush has minimal dialogue it is filled with a dramatic background score. The Body has no music. The only sounds present are everyday noises. So there is the sound of a distant car going by and the sound of wind chimes in the background but otherwise it is a very quiet episode. The technique highlights the fact that death happens suddenly and quickly. The lack of drama shows us how ordinary it really is. It treats the event like any of us might in life. There is no well chosen background music, maudlin speeches or any speeches for that matter or the shedding of manipulative tears designed to choke you. Even the light in the episode is warm and bright. It's so real it is frightening. You don't feel like it is happening in some alternate, unreal universe(which it could have been considering the supernatural theme of this show) it is in fact happening in someone's drawing room, that someone is wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. And it's all real. That is what this episode is saying-this could be you. And in a world of television where every experience is designed to numb you, pull you away from your reality, one that places it back in front of you has to be commended. Especially when done with sincerity and compassion.
3. Once More With Feeling 6x7
Joss Whedon's musical episode certainly seemed to challenge the actors. No dubbing, just their own voices- some tuneless and some others pleasant to the ear. Okay Sarah Michelle Gellar's (what a long name! henceforth will be referred to as SMG. Sorry I hate it when people do this but well.. too bad!) voice is a little whiny and thin. And out of all the actors it is Amber Benson who has the best voice- quite lovely actually. But all this is immaterial. This episode's strong point is that the actors sang in their own voices. I mean, think about it. If you were in your own musical wouldn't you like to sing in your own voice? Even if your voice made caterwauling cats go deaf? (In my secret musical-often performed in the dark where annoying, squidgy siblings can't reach you with their derisive laughter, I have been Jewel-ya right! and even Tori Amos which doesn't suit me one bit but who cares?) Anyway side stepping that rather long aside-the point of course is, it's your musical so it should be your voice.
What is most interesting is that Whedon chose to do this episode here. This is a pretty rough time for all the characters. So as a musical it is pretty depressing. And well from this episode onwards the characters start losing their grip on things. What happens here is the trigger for what happens later. The story:A demon enters Sunnydale to spread death and destruction(Umm.. duh.) and introduces a little song and dance in the bargain. Good thing? Only thing is, if you dance too long and too hard you burst into flames. Very unwillingly, the characters end up singing about things they would never speak about. Pandora's box opens and the hilarity lasts only as long as the song does. And in some cases not even that long.
I always used to wonder why they never made Alyson Hannigan sing in this episode. All she does is some back up here and there. Then I realised that out of all the characters, Willow is the happiest. Buffy sings about feeling apathetic and well dead to what's happening around her, Spike sings about unrequited love, Tara sings about Willow's betrayal, Giles about his concern for Buffy, Xander and Anya about their marriage related fears and Dawn, well Dawn sings about being a teenager which lets face it, is too complicated to address here. Willow's the only one who is not insecure. She's dabbling in magic she shouldn't be, she's also messing with Tara's head and is in blissful ignorance (rather arrogance) of the consequences to her actions. Actually her arrogance is what makes what happens later so tragic. She also gets her first blow when Buffy reveals that she was never in hell. Anyway definitely one of my favorite episodes. I loved the group song in the beginning. Anya's tirade about the evil bunnies (lol I am imagining innocent little bunnies blinking here) is probably my favorit-est song on this episode.
2. Hush 4x10
Wow! My respect for Whedon really went up (though it was pretty sky high already) when I watched this one. He definitely deserved the Emmy nomination for this one. He might have even deserved to win it. I made my sister watch it recently and she freaked out. How brilliantly brilliantly directed and definitely one of the creepiest episodes ever on the series. So the story is about the Gentlemen- wonderful wonderful make up. So very creepy. From their suits and the perpetually plastered smiles on their faces to the eloquent hand gestures and polite nods they are different from any of the creeps we see on this show. Like my sister said "Monsters should not be refined." So these Gentlemen arrive in Sunnydale to steal people's voices and more. As the rhyme goes:
"Can't even shout, Can't even cry
the gentlemen are coming by,
knocking on windows knocking on doors
they need to take 7 and they might take yours.
Can't call your mom, can't say a word,
You're gonna die screaming but you won't be heard."
the gentlemen are coming by,
knocking on windows knocking on doors
they need to take 7 and they might take yours.
Can't call your mom, can't say a word,
You're gonna die screaming but you won't be heard."
Most of this episode has no dialogue in it which is what makes it so brilliant. It is absolutely riveting to watch. The characters have lost their voices and the consequences range from hilarious to downright frightening. Take the moment when Xander calls Buffy and realises he can't talk or Buffy who picks up the phone and exasperatedly puts it down when nothing but air comes out of her mouth. Though there is no dialogue there is actually a lot of talking. Violent hand gestures, pithy messages and a hilarious presentation of the case by Giles. The background noise is supplied by dramatic music playing up to whatever is happening in the scene. The music therefore becomes the narration. Of course the scariest thing is that when you scream, no one hears you. I think my favourite parts of this episode have to be: when the characters first realise they are dumb, Xander's misunderstanding with Spike, The Gentlemen floating all over town as if part of some macabre musical and the last part. Definitely the last part. Buffy and Riley finally get to know about each others' identities but when they sit down to talk about it, words fail them as they face each other in what is actually the most silent part of the episode. I don't think I can say enough to do it credit. Watch it in order to understand not just mine but everybody's fascination with it.
1. The Body 5x16
My plan, initially was to have "Hush" top the list but then I watched The Body and I was incredibly moved. I going to try and not gush about this one. I feel like I would do grave insult to the episode by doing this.
This episode picks off from the end of the previous one where Buffy finds her mother lying dead on the couch. The episode is played out in Four Acts. The First Act is done in one long shot. It is a scene that is heartbreaking with its lack of drama (actually the entire episode is) and credit for this must go to SMG. Her initial denial, her regression to childlike behaviour on finding her mother, her panicked phone call to 911, her dazed walk through the house when she is first told her mother is dead to the final scene in the Act when she reacts with horror as she refers to her mother as "the body".
The Second Act relays Dawn's response to the event. While Buffy is put together with cracks showing up in places that hint of a delayed but more devastating breakdown, Dawn's reaction is immediate. She is a child, her mother is dead-her world just falls apart and everybody is there to witness it. I like that Whedon decided to keep the audience away from the dialogue that is going on between Buffy and Dawn when she first tells her what has happened. He allows you to place yourself in that space-what would you say what would your reaction be? Also it is almost like he is doing the decent thing by giving the characters their privacy.
The Third Act shows all their friends' reactions. Of these I find Willow's the most touching. Not only because Alyson Hannigan acts it brilliantly, she was the one I could most identify with. Her reactions: Not knowing what to say to your best friend, panicking about it, not wanting to face it and the endless heartbreaking compassion that one does not want to feel are all essayed brilliantly. This episode is famous for Anya's monologue. Following a spate of inappropriate questions the monologue addresses the confusion and shock we all face when death comes along. Though she is new to being human, Anya has never been anything but when she says she does not know what to do.
The Fourth Act is in the hospital. All the characters have gathered to hear about the cause of death. There is a devastating final scene in the morgue and it is perhaps one of my favourite Buffy endings along with "Hush".
In terms of technique this episode was handled exactly opposite to Hush. While Hush has minimal dialogue it is filled with a dramatic background score. The Body has no music. The only sounds present are everyday noises. So there is the sound of a distant car going by and the sound of wind chimes in the background but otherwise it is a very quiet episode. The technique highlights the fact that death happens suddenly and quickly. The lack of drama shows us how ordinary it really is. It treats the event like any of us might in life. There is no well chosen background music, maudlin speeches or any speeches for that matter or the shedding of manipulative tears designed to choke you. Even the light in the episode is warm and bright. It's so real it is frightening. You don't feel like it is happening in some alternate, unreal universe(which it could have been considering the supernatural theme of this show) it is in fact happening in someone's drawing room, that someone is wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. And it's all real. That is what this episode is saying-this could be you. And in a world of television where every experience is designed to numb you, pull you away from your reality, one that places it back in front of you has to be commended. Especially when done with sincerity and compassion.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Books I have to have to get my hands on
So these days I'm always in the mood to read. I haven't felt like this in a long long time. There was a time when you'd always see me with a book attached to my face. Then I guess all that went away when I succumbed to bad TV and the internet *sigh* but not anymore. These days when I see a book my fingers always get a little itchy and I can feel the stirrings of interest that is purely involuntary and it's not something I have to generate. So the other day I went to Bookworm with I (who I am so so happy is going to be in Bangalore) and I died. I was flat broke and there were so many books I wanted to buy. Still, with barely any money in my pocket or in my account(sob! sob!) I bought Murder At The Vicarage by Agatha Christie(I'm obsessed all over again. Someone stop me! Bought a Pocket Full Of Rye only two days later) and The Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin-this will be my first Anaïs Nin, I've been reading up on her and I find her fascinating. And this will be my first dive into apparently good erotica. Okay now getting to my list:
1. Crooked House by Agatha Christie
2. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
3. The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood
Ok not much of a list-:s. But still, of the three the first one is going to be very hard to find. I combed through Landmark yesterday and I couldn't find it anywhere. Come to think of it I've never seen it in a bookstore. It's probably her creepiest yet and I searched for it with a desperation that I think creeped out poor I.
By the way, did you know creeped wasn't a word? Apparently I've been taking gross liberties with this language.
1. Crooked House by Agatha Christie
2. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
3. The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood
Ok not much of a list-:s. But still, of the three the first one is going to be very hard to find. I combed through Landmark yesterday and I couldn't find it anywhere. Come to think of it I've never seen it in a bookstore. It's probably her creepiest yet and I searched for it with a desperation that I think creeped out poor I.
By the way, did you know creeped wasn't a word? Apparently I've been taking gross liberties with this language.
Graham Greene
my breath is folded up
like sheets in lavender
the end for me
arrives like nursery tea
Playlist
My current obsessions:
1. Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens
I love this man. I love this song. Special mention also for :
Concerning The UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois; They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back from the Dead!! Ahhhh! (to be loved just for its name); Romulus-I am beginning to love this album more than Seven Swans.
2. We have a map of the piano by Múm
Courtesy the lovely Isa.
3. Pink Bullets by The Shins
I will never get over this song. I think I've been obsessed for over a year now.
4. They'll never take the good years by Wiliam Fitzsimmons
It kills me with its laid back sweetness.
5. 4th Time Around by Bob Dylan
A little gem that I almost missed.
6. Brooks Was Here by Thomas Newman
The haunting background score for Shawshank Redemption's most moving scene spelt out alienation so starkly, you couldn't avoid it. Much like Brooks, this piece leaves its mark on you.
7. Humans are Dead by Flight of the Conchords
Though it may not seem like I have a sense from the humor from the above list, I think mention of this song and is enough to save me from any hasty conclusions.
1. Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens
I love this man. I love this song. Special mention also for :
Concerning The UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois; They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back from the Dead!! Ahhhh! (to be loved just for its name); Romulus-I am beginning to love this album more than Seven Swans.
2. We have a map of the piano by Múm
Courtesy the lovely Isa.
3. Pink Bullets by The Shins
I will never get over this song. I think I've been obsessed for over a year now.
4. They'll never take the good years by Wiliam Fitzsimmons
It kills me with its laid back sweetness.
5. 4th Time Around by Bob Dylan
A little gem that I almost missed.
6. Brooks Was Here by Thomas Newman
The haunting background score for Shawshank Redemption's most moving scene spelt out alienation so starkly, you couldn't avoid it. Much like Brooks, this piece leaves its mark on you.
7. Humans are Dead by Flight of the Conchords
Though it may not seem like I have a sense from the humor from the above list, I think mention of this song and is enough to save me from any hasty conclusions.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Movies I will probably end up watching even though they promise to be terrible.
New Moon
Oh my god! How bad is the book?? The first one I barely skimmed through but this one, I could not get past the first two chapters. Seriously how is it possible to make vampires boring?(I'm sure there is an army of tweens planning my destruction now).And can the heroine be more annoying? Besides her limited vocabulary in describing the apparently unearthly like features of the brooding vampire, she has to be one of the most poorly written female characters ever! I mean come on look at Hermione Granger or Luna Lovegood. JK Rowling, whatever her flaws(some more obvious now), created really strong,well defined, likable characters- even if they did wobble once in a while.And I honestly don't know know why Kristen Stewart agreed to act in this travesty of a series. I actually find her very interesting. And I'm sorry Robert Pattinson cannot act. Yes he looks bloodless and his hair is teased appropriately but please watch the scene in Twilight(vomit) where he is (apparently) resisting Bella's scent(again,vomit); his attempt at looking tortured fails miserably. The guys looks merely constipated-not attractive. I was mildly interested when I found out he played Salvador Dali in "Little Ashes". Then I watched one scene in the film and well...less said the better. Still, I'll probably watch New Moon when it comes out because I am jobless and mean. I guess that doesn't say much about me.
2012
Blah blah! Another movie about how America saves the day. Seriously Hollywood. You're an insult to your cliches. Okay truth is I haven't watched it yet. (Duh! Hence the title) But this just looks like Independence Day (another gem of course) Oh! wait. It's by the same director. Go figure. But John Cusak! I have one question for you- Why???Remember High fidelity? ? Okay that's two questions. :s Are you one of those people who really identify with a smiley and find it to be a better mirror of what you feel than in fact your own face?(pulling faces in the mirror-I invoke my inner Calvin)
But on an aside read this delicious blog by an American, 30 something woman who loves Bollywood. Makes me fall in love with the "Indian film industry"(who are we kidding??) all over again.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Things to say. To people I love.
1- I love how you cut to the point. Even if when you cut it hurts. We should talk more or we should just sit-either way, the world makes a little more sense when we spend more time together. Probably because alone, we don't make much sense you and I. See how I am not making sense now?
2- I love that whenever you call I can hear you smile. I don't think you realise that I listen more to that smile than anything you actually say.
3-I love how we pick up from where we leave off. I love your cackle. You're such a goof and with you I'm goofier. And, I miss her almost as much as you do. Only almost.
4- You're like a breeze or like wet mud-so pleasant. And that might not sound like much. But it is. It's just enough.
5- I think you should get your butt back to this side of the world and just call me. I think you should share some of that happiness. You shared enough of your depression. And my poetry misses you.
6- I love that you're always there on my gtalk. What I don't love- that we don't talk as often because of this.
7- I wish you would brighten up a little. Heck(who says heck??) I wish I would. But I try. I try, so please just try. I think we need to be braver.
8-Life isn't that hard. Or it is. No wait it is. I'm sorry... it is.
9- We're going to have sooo much fun. I hope I don't ruin it.
10-I am your hydra you are my panda. This is not cryptic enough but neither are we. Thank god!
11-
12- I love that you're the only person who'll read this and bother to ask me who is who. I love that you bother.
2- I love that whenever you call I can hear you smile. I don't think you realise that I listen more to that smile than anything you actually say.
3-I love how we pick up from where we leave off. I love your cackle. You're such a goof and with you I'm goofier. And, I miss her almost as much as you do. Only almost.
4- You're like a breeze or like wet mud-so pleasant. And that might not sound like much. But it is. It's just enough.
5- I think you should get your butt back to this side of the world and just call me. I think you should share some of that happiness. You shared enough of your depression. And my poetry misses you.
6- I love that you're always there on my gtalk. What I don't love- that we don't talk as often because of this.
7- I wish you would brighten up a little. Heck(who says heck??) I wish I would. But I try. I try, so please just try. I think we need to be braver.
8-Life isn't that hard. Or it is. No wait it is. I'm sorry... it is.
9- We're going to have sooo much fun. I hope I don't ruin it.
10-I am your hydra you are my panda. This is not cryptic enough but neither are we. Thank god!
11-
12- I love that you're the only person who'll read this and bother to ask me who is who. I love that you bother.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Delhi
Today is such a wet day. The rain hasn't let up since I have woken up. I am listening to Sufjan and I am remembering Delhi. People who know what Delhi is like often have this strange expression on their face when they ask me about it-as if they're daring me to say something awful about it. And I usually do. I complain about the weather, the people, how much I hated the entire experience. But these days I find myself thinking about Delhi a lot with a surprising amount of wistfulness. Like I wish I could have made better use of it. I think I miss Delhi more now because even though it was painful being there, my relationship with it was more obvious. More laid out. It was a very love-hate relationship. It treated me awfully (at times)and I would malign it as much as I could- when it suited me. Often enough though, I'd feel like I was talking about an unwanted family member. The point of course is that it still remained family.
I live in Bangalore now. I feel like we're still withholding judgement on each other. It's a lot more uncomfortable-this not knowing. This sense of alien-ness. The inability to complain because my mind hasn't been made up yet. Delhi was also family because I had family there. I remember them now and I can't believe how somethings have changed. Maybe all this remembering is because of the rain. Right now, it's coming down like needles- piercing everything with sharp clarity. The fog that has surrounded me seems to be lifting from me briefly. And I remember things. I remember standing in our hostel bathroom and watching the rain at night glowing in the yellow light. I remember I calling me for this rain ritual of ours. I remember friends and I remember family. Maybe it's Sufjan. I first heard him with A. I remember lying flat on my back in her room- always listening to music and not talking. I don't remember what I used to think about then, but I remember being happy. Maybe because I didn't think. I was just.. being. If I could just be- I would go back. But being as we know it can't be contrived. It just happens. Delhi just happened. And that's how I must remember it.
I live in Bangalore now. I feel like we're still withholding judgement on each other. It's a lot more uncomfortable-this not knowing. This sense of alien-ness. The inability to complain because my mind hasn't been made up yet. Delhi was also family because I had family there. I remember them now and I can't believe how somethings have changed. Maybe all this remembering is because of the rain. Right now, it's coming down like needles- piercing everything with sharp clarity. The fog that has surrounded me seems to be lifting from me briefly. And I remember things. I remember standing in our hostel bathroom and watching the rain at night glowing in the yellow light. I remember I calling me for this rain ritual of ours. I remember friends and I remember family. Maybe it's Sufjan. I first heard him with A. I remember lying flat on my back in her room- always listening to music and not talking. I don't remember what I used to think about then, but I remember being happy. Maybe because I didn't think. I was just.. being. If I could just be- I would go back. But being as we know it can't be contrived. It just happens. Delhi just happened. And that's how I must remember it.
Rainer Maria Rilke
For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, men,
and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how
the birds fly and know the gesture with which the little
flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back
to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to
partings one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that
are still unexplained, to parents whom one had to hurt when
they brought one some joy and did not grasp it (it was a joy
for someone else); to childhood illnesses that so strangely
begin with such a number of profound and grave
transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and
to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of
travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the
stars—and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this.
One must have memories of many nights of love, none of
which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor,
and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again.
But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat
beside the dead in the room with the open window and the
fitful noises. And still it is not enough to have memories. One
must be able to forget them when they are many, and one
must have the great patience to wait until they come again.
For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not till they have
turned to blood within us, to glance, and gesture, nameless,
and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—not till
then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of
a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
—From “The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how
the birds fly and know the gesture with which the little
flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back
to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to
partings one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that
are still unexplained, to parents whom one had to hurt when
they brought one some joy and did not grasp it (it was a joy
for someone else); to childhood illnesses that so strangely
begin with such a number of profound and grave
transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and
to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of
travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the
stars—and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this.
One must have memories of many nights of love, none of
which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor,
and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again.
But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat
beside the dead in the room with the open window and the
fitful noises. And still it is not enough to have memories. One
must be able to forget them when they are many, and one
must have the great patience to wait until they come again.
For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not till they have
turned to blood within us, to glance, and gesture, nameless,
and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—not till
then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of
a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
—From “The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
Monday, November 2, 2009
The secret lives of little girls
When I first told my aunt(former English Literature lecturer, lover of words and the one who helped in opening that secret window into books and their worlds) that I wanted to read Cat's eye by Margaret Atwood, she shuddered(a bit dramatic but I love her reactions) and said "Ooh that's a dark one" I didn't take her very seriously or rather I was actually inspired to read the book even more. I really underestimated how much this book would affect me. It's not just because it's dark or because it's about women. It's not even issue related I think. I started reading it and immediately related to it.
Have you ever had a friend while growing up who was the queen of the gang? Who everybody secretly hated but outwardly worshiped because the alternative-of standing up to her would leave you out in the cold? I did. Her name was D. She was the prettiest girl in our class and she made our lives hell. She was completely dictatorial. And we just followed her while wishing someone would just topple her over. So you wouldn't complain if you were told that you'd have to play the elder sister while playing princess and the witch, or god-knows-what we indulged in at that time. You'd rather be the nondescript elder sister in the play, than the rebel who stands up for herself in the playground and gets thrown out. Ya I was always the boring elder sister. D as you can guess, was the pretty princess. She would lets us know why we were worthy of her condescension and of course when we were not, she would inform us why. This would of course change at a whim. Now when I look back on all that I have no idea why we took it all. She was a kid. A stupid kid in pink. But then so were we. Maybe it was the pink, maybe it was the fact that she behaved as if she deserved worshiping- but the truth remains, that we let it happen.
Some friends of mine like A and G would shudder when they talked about her years later, much after she had left the school. I even remember when she came back once-I think we were in the 8th standard then. These two friends of mine didn't even look at her. I also heard she was pretty skittish about being back. I can understand that- it's harder for the perpetrator to look at her victims.
I think Atwood brings home a hugely disturbing fact about little girls which I see reflected in my childhood as well . We were awful to each other while growing up. Just awful. There's a major power struggle that exists that I think is either absent in boys or just less complicated. The worst thing of course, is that nobody knows about it. It's almost like this covert operation happening right underneath parents' noses who by the way, are too busy sniffing out their mischievous but far less harmful boys.I remember how we used to gang up on one person at a time and tell that person exactly what was wrong with her. Each of us went through it. And you never knew when it would be your turn. I remember the time it happened to me, quite clearly. We were in the 8th standard. N had left school and gone to Sishya-I was miserable without her and miserable with having to make friends with the others- those that I had neglected when she and I became friends. And it started slowly -the slight cold shoulders, the wondering, the looking over your shoulder, and then when finally they surround you to start the complaints you're almost relieved because it's finally out there and you can face it. It's hell. But you let it go- get accepted again, and the next time you participate in it? Someone else is the victim.
When I finished reading Atwood's similar account of peer torture I bawled my eyes out. I was in Conoor at that time and all I wanted to do was call my friends and reassure myself that we're not the monsters we used to be. Because we're still friends. And I almost feel like the way we treat each other now -all soft and warm and cuddly is to make up for what we did to each other before.We stand up for each other now. Whenever each of us is heartbroken or someone has treated us badly there are a flurry of emails that invoke a sort of inner sisterhood that bypasses distance, time, and yes even abuse. Because that's what it was. I think the fact that we're still around each other says something we never really acknowledge about love and friendship-that though we're often kinder to a stranger than we are to a loved one, there is a greater sense of validation in being around those with whom you share your failures.
(I just apologised to G while writing this. It's never too late for anything)
Unresolved. Don't know how to end this.
Have you ever had a friend while growing up who was the queen of the gang? Who everybody secretly hated but outwardly worshiped because the alternative-of standing up to her would leave you out in the cold? I did. Her name was D. She was the prettiest girl in our class and she made our lives hell. She was completely dictatorial. And we just followed her while wishing someone would just topple her over. So you wouldn't complain if you were told that you'd have to play the elder sister while playing princess and the witch, or god-knows-what we indulged in at that time. You'd rather be the nondescript elder sister in the play, than the rebel who stands up for herself in the playground and gets thrown out. Ya I was always the boring elder sister. D as you can guess, was the pretty princess. She would lets us know why we were worthy of her condescension and of course when we were not, she would inform us why. This would of course change at a whim. Now when I look back on all that I have no idea why we took it all. She was a kid. A stupid kid in pink. But then so were we. Maybe it was the pink, maybe it was the fact that she behaved as if she deserved worshiping- but the truth remains, that we let it happen.
Some friends of mine like A and G would shudder when they talked about her years later, much after she had left the school. I even remember when she came back once-I think we were in the 8th standard then. These two friends of mine didn't even look at her. I also heard she was pretty skittish about being back. I can understand that- it's harder for the perpetrator to look at her victims.
I think Atwood brings home a hugely disturbing fact about little girls which I see reflected in my childhood as well . We were awful to each other while growing up. Just awful. There's a major power struggle that exists that I think is either absent in boys or just less complicated. The worst thing of course, is that nobody knows about it. It's almost like this covert operation happening right underneath parents' noses who by the way, are too busy sniffing out their mischievous but far less harmful boys.I remember how we used to gang up on one person at a time and tell that person exactly what was wrong with her. Each of us went through it. And you never knew when it would be your turn. I remember the time it happened to me, quite clearly. We were in the 8th standard. N had left school and gone to Sishya-I was miserable without her and miserable with having to make friends with the others- those that I had neglected when she and I became friends. And it started slowly -the slight cold shoulders, the wondering, the looking over your shoulder, and then when finally they surround you to start the complaints you're almost relieved because it's finally out there and you can face it. It's hell. But you let it go- get accepted again, and the next time you participate in it? Someone else is the victim.
When I finished reading Atwood's similar account of peer torture I bawled my eyes out. I was in Conoor at that time and all I wanted to do was call my friends and reassure myself that we're not the monsters we used to be. Because we're still friends. And I almost feel like the way we treat each other now -all soft and warm and cuddly is to make up for what we did to each other before.We stand up for each other now. Whenever each of us is heartbroken or someone has treated us badly there are a flurry of emails that invoke a sort of inner sisterhood that bypasses distance, time, and yes even abuse. Because that's what it was. I think the fact that we're still around each other says something we never really acknowledge about love and friendship-that though we're often kinder to a stranger than we are to a loved one, there is a greater sense of validation in being around those with whom you share your failures.
(I just apologised to G while writing this. It's never too late for anything)
Unresolved. Don't know how to end this.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Poetry III
Today I woke up with a poem in my head. I figure that’s an excellent way to wake up. That’s what I have been doing a lot these days-waking up with lines I could use, words I could replace and poems of mine that need editing. The online poetry workshop is working excellently and I strongly recommend it for anyone who wants to improve. I posted my first poem around a month back-very gingerly. I was very apprehensive-I’d seen some of the crits other people had gotten and I was just a wee bit terrified. The site clearly states that if what you’re looking for is a pat on the head for good work done then this is not the place for you. So I mulled over that for a while. I told myself if all I wanted were pats on the head then maybe I should head somewhere else. I do not handle criticism very well (really who does?) in the sense that I end up taking it to heart see it as a reflection of who I am. I do not get defensive-I get very insecure and just give up. And I knew that I didn’t want to give up. I love writing. There I said it. I can’t escape from that now and I can’t be lazy about it either. Anyway I remembered Rilke’s “Letters to a young poet” and this part that has always stayed with me:
”Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse"
I have had that epiphany. So I realized then that yes I would love for people to like my work and I would love to be told that I am a brilliant writer but that really doesn’t change anything. I haven’t been writing for as long as some of the people I know but I have a fair idea that this is what I like doing now. And because of that I must work on it. It deserves that effort from me. So the opinions of others do matter. I would also like that opinion to be credible. I would like to feel like I deserve it. Friends, family, people who love us, will tell us a great many things because they are the guardians of our soul -for that we must cherish them. Not so much for their opinion. And this does not mean they do not hold worthy opinions- it’s just that love screws things up a little. Love is the ink blot, the water colour stain hiding truth behind it. We can get truth only from the unsympathetic stranger who owes us nothing.
Anyway so after I first posted my poem I waited eagerly for responses. The first response that came wasn’t so good. I was pretty disheartened so for a long time I didn’t go to the site. I wrote a little on the side-told myself that maybe they just didn’t get the way I wrote, and many more such rationalisations I offered myself. Then recently I went back and I found that 3 more people had responded-one of them having gone through the trouble to dissect the poem line by line-even I hadn’t done that. Forget that this is a criteria for staying in the workshop (one post=3 critiques of other people’s work) so one might reason he was just doing his part to stay in the workshop. Maybe. But this person even sent me a private message to tell me what he thought needed work. And he was encouraging. He liked my concept-he just thought it needed working on. I also realised that everyone who had responded liked my basic concept which is more than I can ask for as a beginner. It is humbling to be a part of this workshop. So after a month I put up another poem. Responses were varied-one person said they didn’t get what I was trying to convey. Another, loved it so much she compared me to Emily Dickinson. Seriously. How great is that?
I strongly recommend putting yourself(or rather, your work) out there. Don’t tell yourself it doesn’t matter because it does. Otherwise you have no business doing the thing you claim to love-this goes for all those who create and seek to add something to this world by way of that creation.It deserves your sweat, your blood, your tears- your effort.
”Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse"
I have had that epiphany. So I realized then that yes I would love for people to like my work and I would love to be told that I am a brilliant writer but that really doesn’t change anything. I haven’t been writing for as long as some of the people I know but I have a fair idea that this is what I like doing now. And because of that I must work on it. It deserves that effort from me. So the opinions of others do matter. I would also like that opinion to be credible. I would like to feel like I deserve it. Friends, family, people who love us, will tell us a great many things because they are the guardians of our soul -for that we must cherish them. Not so much for their opinion. And this does not mean they do not hold worthy opinions- it’s just that love screws things up a little. Love is the ink blot, the water colour stain hiding truth behind it. We can get truth only from the unsympathetic stranger who owes us nothing.
Anyway so after I first posted my poem I waited eagerly for responses. The first response that came wasn’t so good. I was pretty disheartened so for a long time I didn’t go to the site. I wrote a little on the side-told myself that maybe they just didn’t get the way I wrote, and many more such rationalisations I offered myself. Then recently I went back and I found that 3 more people had responded-one of them having gone through the trouble to dissect the poem line by line-even I hadn’t done that. Forget that this is a criteria for staying in the workshop (one post=3 critiques of other people’s work) so one might reason he was just doing his part to stay in the workshop. Maybe. But this person even sent me a private message to tell me what he thought needed work. And he was encouraging. He liked my concept-he just thought it needed working on. I also realised that everyone who had responded liked my basic concept which is more than I can ask for as a beginner. It is humbling to be a part of this workshop. So after a month I put up another poem. Responses were varied-one person said they didn’t get what I was trying to convey. Another, loved it so much she compared me to Emily Dickinson. Seriously. How great is that?
I strongly recommend putting yourself(or rather, your work) out there. Don’t tell yourself it doesn’t matter because it does. Otherwise you have no business doing the thing you claim to love-this goes for all those who create and seek to add something to this world by way of that creation.It deserves your sweat, your blood, your tears- your effort.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Love, Peace, Music
So Ang Lee's "Taking Woodstock" is releasing this week. I am (obviously) led to think about the first time I watched Wadleigh's masterpiece. The 6 hour documentary which is heady, wild, incoherent in bits, can transport you to that decade, to that field, that mud pit where love, music and feces all mixed happily together. So you may wrinkle your nose at all the dirty naked people but god! they look so happy- you want a slice of that. You even want to make a peace sign and spout cliched lines about love. There is a spirit of harmony that is palatable. Maybe it's naive to think that there were more than just drugs, music, unprotected sex and pollution happening(I was told that the field upon which they camped was so completely destroyed it took years to rejuvenate it) but it really laid the platform for some of the most important musical influences,-Crosby Stills Nash, Santana, The Who, Joe Cocker and many more.
Some of the most memorable performances for me were(Since then I've watched them many times over but these are my first and yes, lasting impressions- I can only imagine what it must have felt like to have been there to witness it in person):
Joe Cocker's spin on The Beatles hit "With a little help for my friends" is miles ahead of the original. His freakish yells coupled with the almost operatic soars provided by the backup singers(whom I thought were two black women until I watched the film and realised they were two bone thin men with long dirty hair) makes this song iconic, moves it beyond being a cutesy if tad bit melancholic song to a painful anthem on salvation. Cocker alternates between screaming this song - wrenching and twisting your gut with thorny chaotic memories, and then goes onto soothe you by crooning, tenderly, "What do I do when my love is away?", urging you to treat love as the wounded bird it is. Cocker looks out of this world(they say he was on an acid trip) with straggly bits of his hair swirling in the wind, face screwed up as he belts out note after note(oh my god those notes). And you know that when he finishes the song and looks out at the crowd to wave, to acknowledge the shared resurrection, he never expects to feel like that again. And neither should you.
Santana's "Soul Sacrifice"-Through an erotic, beautiful clash of sound a 20 something Santana (along with his other 20 something band members including the prodigious Micheal Shrive with one of the most exciting drum solos ever) sets out to tease and titillate you till you are left shattered by the unspeakable things he is doing to you through his guitar. Goosebumps rise everywhere and your head is now mindless, filled with glorious liquid sound that quivers and explodes in your head without any warning. Unlike Cocker, Santana does not let you think. All you can do is watch and listen with mouth half open, submerged, in something you will not understand.
When Pete Townsend begins with "See Me Feel Me" it seems like he is begging for your acknowledgment. Which you're more than willing to give.Your attention (it seems ) is vital. When the songs picks up he transforms into a malevolent presence as if now having hooked you in, he no longer cares- he knows you're not going to leave. This is probably one of the most heady songs of The Who. The visual makes it all the more compelling. Pete Townsend, with his fringed white jacket shines in the darkness like some angle of deliverance. From what I have heard about the song, I know it is supposed to be about a deaf and blind child who becomes a prodigy of sorts at pinball and as a result becomes an idol for his followers.
If you haven't watched-by watched, I mean a dozen things,most importantly- submerged yourself in this film, I suggest you do. Especially if you are disillusioned, and music today has left you cold and dry. Bow your head down and listen to the masters at their moment of inception.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Must watch
*before next year*
A Clockwork Orange- N and I tried watching this years ago and after 15 minutes of cringing we switched it off. But it's supposed to be one of the greats so I want to watch it.
* Irma Vep-I LOVE Maggie Cheung and the synopsis on IMDB sounds wacky!
* The Uninvited- I really want to see if this does any justice to the original Janghwa, Hongryeon (a.k.a Tale of two Sisters)-I don't have very high hopes but I'm open to being contradicted.
* JFK-I managed to get a dvd of this film when I was in Delhi and the stupid thing didn't work.
* The 3 other documentaries on Kabir-Chalo Hamara Des, Kabira Khada Hain Bazaar Mein, Koi Sunta Hai, (as part of The Kabir Project) by Shabnam Virmani.(I loved Had-Anhad) Okay the likelihood of me getting my hands on these before the year end is unlikely. Still I'm going to put it up on my must watch just to remind me.
* 500 days of Summer- It just looks refreshing.
* Whip it- Ellen Page!
* Kaminey- Okay Shahid Kapur looks really hot. And I love Vishal Bharadwaj.
Addition: Taking Woodstock- How far will they mess this up? How much will they refer to Wadleigh's Woodstock? I am very curious.But I have faith in Ang Lee.
A Clockwork Orange- N and I tried watching this years ago and after 15 minutes of cringing we switched it off. But it's supposed to be one of the greats so I want to watch it.
* Irma Vep-I LOVE Maggie Cheung and the synopsis on IMDB sounds wacky!
* The Uninvited- I really want to see if this does any justice to the original Janghwa, Hongryeon (a.k.a Tale of two Sisters)-I don't have very high hopes but I'm open to being contradicted.
* JFK-I managed to get a dvd of this film when I was in Delhi and the stupid thing didn't work.
* The 3 other documentaries on Kabir-Chalo Hamara Des, Kabira Khada Hain Bazaar Mein, Koi Sunta Hai, (as part of The Kabir Project) by Shabnam Virmani.(I loved Had-Anhad) Okay the likelihood of me getting my hands on these before the year end is unlikely. Still I'm going to put it up on my must watch just to remind me.
* 500 days of Summer- It just looks refreshing.
* Whip it- Ellen Page!
* Kaminey- Okay Shahid Kapur looks really hot. And I love Vishal Bharadwaj.
Addition: Taking Woodstock- How far will they mess this up? How much will they refer to Wadleigh's Woodstock? I am very curious.But I have faith in Ang Lee.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Firefly Under the Tongue
by Coral Bracho
I love you from the sharp tang of the fermentation;
in the blissful pulp. Newborn insects, blue.
In the unsullied juice, glazed and ductile.
Cry that distills the light:
through the fissures in fruit trees;
under mossy water clinging to the shadows. The
papillae, the grottos.
In herbaceous dyes, instilled. From the flustered touch.
Luster
oozing, bittersweet: of feracious pleasures,
of play splayed in pulses.
Hinge
(Wrapped in the night's aura, in violaceous clamor,
refined, the boy, with the softened root of his tongue
expectant, touches,
with that smooth, unsustainable, lubricity—sensitive lily
folding into the rocks
if it senses the stigma, the ardor of light—the substance, the arris
fine and vibrant—in its ecstatic petal, distended—[jewel
pulsing half-open; teats], the acid
juice bland [ice], the salt marsh,
the delicate sap [Kabbalah], the nectar
of the firefly.)
Any attempt at explaining how I feel about this poem will fail miserably. Still,I will bumble my way through that soon. For now, I'm just happy to have it around me, here.
I love you from the sharp tang of the fermentation;
in the blissful pulp. Newborn insects, blue.
In the unsullied juice, glazed and ductile.
Cry that distills the light:
through the fissures in fruit trees;
under mossy water clinging to the shadows. The
papillae, the grottos.
In herbaceous dyes, instilled. From the flustered touch.
Luster
oozing, bittersweet: of feracious pleasures,
of play splayed in pulses.
Hinge
(Wrapped in the night's aura, in violaceous clamor,
refined, the boy, with the softened root of his tongue
expectant, touches,
with that smooth, unsustainable, lubricity—sensitive lily
folding into the rocks
if it senses the stigma, the ardor of light—the substance, the arris
fine and vibrant—in its ecstatic petal, distended—[jewel
pulsing half-open; teats], the acid
juice bland [ice], the salt marsh,
the delicate sap [Kabbalah], the nectar
of the firefly.)
Any attempt at explaining how I feel about this poem will fail miserably. Still,I will bumble my way through that soon. For now, I'm just happy to have it around me, here.
Reading list
I MUST, I must finish these before the next year. That's only 3 months away okay???
Of Love And Other Demons
Have to finish this. It is so hard to put down but work has been crazy and the only time I am getting is when I am on the bus.Besides, I will never forgive myself if the only Marquez I can say I have finished is Chronicle Of A Death Foretold.
*wince*
Cats Eye
I love Atwood. I could barely get through her short stories though so I'm hoping this one is good. Besides, it sounds all dark and gloomy so that makes me very happy.
Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'Fore I Die
Okay I picked this up at random in Blossom the other day, flipped through it for like 5 minutes before deciding to buy it.5 minutes, that's all it took. So good. I've already read a couple but I'm yet to savour.
Of Love And Other Demons
Have to finish this. It is so hard to put down but work has been crazy and the only time I am getting is when I am on the bus.Besides, I will never forgive myself if the only Marquez I can say I have finished is Chronicle Of A Death Foretold.
*wince*
Cats Eye
I love Atwood. I could barely get through her short stories though so I'm hoping this one is good. Besides, it sounds all dark and gloomy so that makes me very happy.
Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'Fore I Die
Okay I picked this up at random in Blossom the other day, flipped through it for like 5 minutes before deciding to buy it.5 minutes, that's all it took. So good. I've already read a couple but I'm yet to savour.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Poetry II
So it seems like poetry as an issue, will feature a number of times in my blog. I am really trying to figure out my own understanding of it. Or rather, find some way to articulate it. I recently joined an online poetry workshop in an attempt to understand more of what I can only assume is "professional poetry". I put this in quotes because this falls in some obscure far away universe where I don't feel I belong. I'm still unsure of where I want to belong, I want people to like what I write(of course) and I want my poems to stand on their own without me jumping in to rescue them but right now I'm struggling with my previous understanding of poetry as being something spontaneous and unedited. What seemed so clear before, seems rather naive and overly simplistic.
For instance, in that workshop, one member(a new one, most likely) posted a rather maudlin poem for critique. Anyway, this person's poem was slaughtered by one of the moderators(did I mention that brutality is a criteria for good critique?) Anyway, what followed was a back and forth dialogue between the moderator and the beaten up poet on the subject of poetry.I won't get into the details of it, but what struck me(and it is something I ought to consider as someone who's trying to become better at writing) was that in response to the poet's rather petulant declaration that poetry comes from the heart the moderator was quick to shoot back and say that poetry does not come from the heart but in fact comes from the mind and therefore takes skill and practise. Umm..that sounds as appealing as mental maths. Well that was my knee jerk reaction.But knees and 'jerky' reactions(haha I am such a wit) aside, though I sympathise with the poor poet's feelings, I realised that I agreed with said moderator-poetry is a mental exercise, a frustrating one at that and incredibly hard to do. Because ultimately, poetry is only for the courageous.
As a poet, a large part of the process of writing involves telling yourself that you are limited and the tool you have is limited(how many times has a sentence refused to bend to your will?), but that you're still going to try and harness the reins of what sometimes seems like a monster waiting to be let loose.(bad analogy I know). No wait it's not. I mean, it does feel like that especially when you write a poem under the influence of some strong emotion, the words go crazy and prance across the page and in general make a mess of what you feel and what you wish to convey. I feel the deeply the chargin of what that poet went through when his/her poem was massacred but it's a lesson (I think) that must be learnt by those who want to write good poetry(of course we can argue over what is good and what is bad but that's a whole other issue) and by the ones who judge poetry too harshly. I am quite tired of hearing how "simple" poetry is. How it ignores the rules of grammar and takes gross liberties with language. I'd like each of these people to try and write one poem for heaven's sake. And that requires them to above all, read poetry. That's how everyone starts. Either way, it is a gross underestimation of what is essentially a unique process and yes, a process that requires effort.
Some might say that I'm removing all that is spontaneous about poetry. I am not. I am merely trying to say that the connection between a good poem and it's source(yes, the heart*sigh*) is the mind. It is that and only that which makes the reader experience a poem rather than simply reading a bunch of lines. It is that difference, that wide and deep chasm, between having someone's bleeding heart(which is just so messy) on your hands and having someone reach out, grab yours and squeeze. And there are only a few who can do it graciously so do not grudge them their gift or their effort. This goes for both the easily dismissive reader and the immature poet. I(for obvious reasons) have greater hope for the latter.
Disclaimer: I do not in any way mean to suggest that I am a part of the group. *sigh* Not yet anyway.
For instance, in that workshop, one member(a new one, most likely) posted a rather maudlin poem for critique. Anyway, this person's poem was slaughtered by one of the moderators(did I mention that brutality is a criteria for good critique?) Anyway, what followed was a back and forth dialogue between the moderator and the beaten up poet on the subject of poetry.I won't get into the details of it, but what struck me(and it is something I ought to consider as someone who's trying to become better at writing) was that in response to the poet's rather petulant declaration that poetry comes from the heart the moderator was quick to shoot back and say that poetry does not come from the heart but in fact comes from the mind and therefore takes skill and practise. Umm..that sounds as appealing as mental maths. Well that was my knee jerk reaction.But knees and 'jerky' reactions(haha I am such a wit) aside, though I sympathise with the poor poet's feelings, I realised that I agreed with said moderator-poetry is a mental exercise, a frustrating one at that and incredibly hard to do. Because ultimately, poetry is only for the courageous.
As a poet, a large part of the process of writing involves telling yourself that you are limited and the tool you have is limited(how many times has a sentence refused to bend to your will?), but that you're still going to try and harness the reins of what sometimes seems like a monster waiting to be let loose.(bad analogy I know). No wait it's not. I mean, it does feel like that especially when you write a poem under the influence of some strong emotion, the words go crazy and prance across the page and in general make a mess of what you feel and what you wish to convey. I feel the deeply the chargin of what that poet went through when his/her poem was massacred but it's a lesson (I think) that must be learnt by those who want to write good poetry(of course we can argue over what is good and what is bad but that's a whole other issue) and by the ones who judge poetry too harshly. I am quite tired of hearing how "simple" poetry is. How it ignores the rules of grammar and takes gross liberties with language. I'd like each of these people to try and write one poem for heaven's sake. And that requires them to above all, read poetry. That's how everyone starts. Either way, it is a gross underestimation of what is essentially a unique process and yes, a process that requires effort.
Some might say that I'm removing all that is spontaneous about poetry. I am not. I am merely trying to say that the connection between a good poem and it's source(yes, the heart*sigh*) is the mind. It is that and only that which makes the reader experience a poem rather than simply reading a bunch of lines. It is that difference, that wide and deep chasm, between having someone's bleeding heart(which is just so messy) on your hands and having someone reach out, grab yours and squeeze. And there are only a few who can do it graciously so do not grudge them their gift or their effort. This goes for both the easily dismissive reader and the immature poet. I(for obvious reasons) have greater hope for the latter.
Disclaimer: I do not in any way mean to suggest that I am a part of the group. *sigh* Not yet anyway.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Stale tea?
how to poem about getting fired?
incompetent
insecure
irrelevant
insincere
immaterial
inconsequential
huh. anyone notice a pattern here?
what does it mean to be professional. and why do we stick to this word like flies on fly paper? i mean, really. what does it even mean? i'm sending this out there. out out. what does this WORD mean?? and what use is to someone who hates the idea of a profession. it's like psychological testing. (another thing i've always hated.) be objective be objective. basically be something that you're not. really, does anybody care. but that's the point i guess. no one cares. about who you really are. so there the twain meet.
so now that i'm in this position of fearing the doomed "i", i am stumped. because if this is what i have to look forward to in a career, then it brings me to wonder why anyone does it. i suppose i sound really immature(ooh! another 'i'!) but that's just it. am i expected to come into the world of work smelling like a psychological rose? or a stapler. or whatever it is offices smell of. right now my office smells of stale tea. uh.. stale tea. i do NOT want to smell like stale tea.
uh anyone who loves their job... get out now!
incompetent
insecure
irrelevant
insincere
immaterial
inconsequential
huh. anyone notice a pattern here?
what does it mean to be professional. and why do we stick to this word like flies on fly paper? i mean, really. what does it even mean? i'm sending this out there. out out. what does this WORD mean?? and what use is to someone who hates the idea of a profession. it's like psychological testing. (another thing i've always hated.) be objective be objective. basically be something that you're not. really, does anybody care. but that's the point i guess. no one cares. about who you really are. so there the twain meet.
so now that i'm in this position of fearing the doomed "i", i am stumped. because if this is what i have to look forward to in a career, then it brings me to wonder why anyone does it. i suppose i sound really immature(ooh! another 'i'!) but that's just it. am i expected to come into the world of work smelling like a psychological rose? or a stapler. or whatever it is offices smell of. right now my office smells of stale tea. uh.. stale tea. i do NOT want to smell like stale tea.
uh anyone who loves their job... get out now!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Poetry
Finally! Finally I find inspiration has struck, and I start this new blog-with nothing spectacular but with something to say. A new muse for each day(or week or month-I'm horribly lazy) I promise.
So today was like any other- I was incredibly bored and was seriously considering taping my lids to my forehead so my eyes could remain open. Then, in one of those rare days when the internet offers something beautiful, I managed to chance upon a blog so ripe with inspiration I felt the stirrings of a whirlpool of ideas even before I explored it. So in my initial forays into the blog I found one lovely tiny post titled "What is Poetry?" (I won't mention the blog here-I'm weird like that) Anyway, the post dealt with the author's own struggle(I'm not sure if this is the right word- I don't think she'd know either) with this question. Anyway, it brought me to wonder about poetry as I understand it. I only began writing this year and yet I feel like something inside me has always been waiting to burst this way. All this poetry is the best reflection of my life's transitions. My personal mascot, that no one can deny because it is the part of me that I choose to place out there. It in my indefinable stamp- though it does allow comment, it is brazen and bold, stands up for itself unlike me. So that got me thinking about my poetry. What are my poems? Not what are they saying but what do they mean? To me? What are these undefinable intangible beings that I have breathed life into that survive quite happily without any assistance from me. These things I have no explanation for but Poetry(and I'll capitalise here for no reason) as I understand it is wildly different, it is an act. An act of commitment made almost too soon, to an idea that almost always comes at the wrong time(like an office meeting *sigh*).. And an event..occurring(always!) when you bang your knee against something and then sit to pick at the scab that forms over the wound.
It is inescapable, wildly unpredictable and I indulge in it because I must. I figure that's definition enough.
If this blog post ends too prematurely think of it as a poem undecided. It's much easier to forgive.
So today was like any other- I was incredibly bored and was seriously considering taping my lids to my forehead so my eyes could remain open. Then, in one of those rare days when the internet offers something beautiful, I managed to chance upon a blog so ripe with inspiration I felt the stirrings of a whirlpool of ideas even before I explored it. So in my initial forays into the blog I found one lovely tiny post titled "What is Poetry?" (I won't mention the blog here-I'm weird like that) Anyway, the post dealt with the author's own struggle(I'm not sure if this is the right word- I don't think she'd know either) with this question. Anyway, it brought me to wonder about poetry as I understand it. I only began writing this year and yet I feel like something inside me has always been waiting to burst this way. All this poetry is the best reflection of my life's transitions. My personal mascot, that no one can deny because it is the part of me that I choose to place out there. It in my indefinable stamp- though it does allow comment, it is brazen and bold, stands up for itself unlike me. So that got me thinking about my poetry. What are my poems? Not what are they saying but what do they mean? To me? What are these undefinable intangible beings that I have breathed life into that survive quite happily without any assistance from me. These things I have no explanation for but Poetry(and I'll capitalise here for no reason) as I understand it is wildly different, it is an act. An act of commitment made almost too soon, to an idea that almost always comes at the wrong time(like an office meeting *sigh*).. And an event..occurring(always!) when you bang your knee against something and then sit to pick at the scab that forms over the wound.
It is inescapable, wildly unpredictable and I indulge in it because I must. I figure that's definition enough.
If this blog post ends too prematurely think of it as a poem undecided. It's much easier to forgive.
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