"One Last Breath"
Please come now I think I'm falling
I'm holding to all I think is safe
It seems I found the road to nowhere
And I'm trying to escape
I yelled back when I heard thunder
But I'm down to one last breath
And with it let me say
Let me say
Hold me now
I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking
That maybe six feet
Ain't so far down
I'm looking down now that it's over
Reflecting on all of my mistakes
I thought I found the road to somewhere
Somewhere in His grace
I cried out heaven save me
But I'm down to one last breath
And with it let me say
Let me say
Hold me now
I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking
That maybe six feet
Ain't so far down
Sad eyes follow me
But I still believe there's somthing left for me
So please come stay with me
'Cause I still believe there's something left for you and me
For you and me
For you and me
Hold me now
I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Digital Delhi: Six Snapshots
1.
I give you truth, says the film-maker
At forty-four frames per second
The man on the pavement ignores him
It is not truth he is after — it is eternity
His delicate parrot steps across lines
Geometric patterns and numbers
In an abrupt flash, it finds the future
And hands it over to the film-maker
His face grows dark . . .
II.
On the next street, assiduous carpenters
Construct an elaborate cabinet of ebony
They work in the garden of a rich house
In the shade of a barren banana plant
A photograph of Rekha adorns the tree
The young men look up from time to time
At the fluttering actress and they know
It is not eternity they are after — it is love
The film-maker grins . . .
III.
When he goes back to Paris, he will buy
Brie and tangerines at the Arab store
He will bring a bottle up from the cellar
And after he has made a mess on the table
He will go down to the studio and call
Bernadette and as he hears her light voice
He will put his head down and cry
Because it is not love he wants — it is India
Her nakedness haunts him . . .
IV.
Most things happen in the open in India
Even if a professor chooses to tell you
About his project to calculate the weight
Of our galaxy, he does so walking through
Gardens where synthetic trouser-legs piss on
Kings, and the sky curves like a Lodi tomb
1044K is only the roughest estimate, he says
The dream of the perfect digit still lives on
In India, home of the zero . . .
V.
Nothing is hidden here — a woman bends
Over other people's clothing, exercising her
Breakable brown arms beside the solid bulk
Of a Maruti-Suzuki van whose golden sticker
Proclaims — Proud to be a Silicon Valley Indian!
Her antique steam-iron smooths every crease
As if her life depended on it — but it is not
The sheen of silk this woman craves — it is
A wide, wide, television set . . .
VI.
Just forty-fours hours in the threshold city 1
And the film-maker jettisons his camera
Because the truth flies in his face
Like that damned parrot! — Bernadette
Is no different from the woman armed
With a hot iron, and images collapse like
Galaxies in the urchin dust of Delhi's exposed
Alleyways — and it is not India that he has found
It is home . . .
prof nair is fantastic..really nice person. idiotic bernie was hogging her which resulted in my deprivation of alone time with her.argh. but nevermind, there's email. check out her orientation!hiaz, i've been wanting to go to india for really long now.should start planning, then can arrange a trip after A's. peeps, let's all go.
1.
I give you truth, says the film-maker
At forty-four frames per second
The man on the pavement ignores him
It is not truth he is after — it is eternity
His delicate parrot steps across lines
Geometric patterns and numbers
In an abrupt flash, it finds the future
And hands it over to the film-maker
His face grows dark . . .
II.
On the next street, assiduous carpenters
Construct an elaborate cabinet of ebony
They work in the garden of a rich house
In the shade of a barren banana plant
A photograph of Rekha adorns the tree
The young men look up from time to time
At the fluttering actress and they know
It is not eternity they are after — it is love
The film-maker grins . . .
III.
When he goes back to Paris, he will buy
Brie and tangerines at the Arab store
He will bring a bottle up from the cellar
And after he has made a mess on the table
He will go down to the studio and call
Bernadette and as he hears her light voice
He will put his head down and cry
Because it is not love he wants — it is India
Her nakedness haunts him . . .
IV.
Most things happen in the open in India
Even if a professor chooses to tell you
About his project to calculate the weight
Of our galaxy, he does so walking through
Gardens where synthetic trouser-legs piss on
Kings, and the sky curves like a Lodi tomb
1044K is only the roughest estimate, he says
The dream of the perfect digit still lives on
In India, home of the zero . . .
V.
Nothing is hidden here — a woman bends
Over other people's clothing, exercising her
Breakable brown arms beside the solid bulk
Of a Maruti-Suzuki van whose golden sticker
Proclaims — Proud to be a Silicon Valley Indian!
Her antique steam-iron smooths every crease
As if her life depended on it — but it is not
The sheen of silk this woman craves — it is
A wide, wide, television set . . .
VI.
Just forty-fours hours in the threshold city 1
And the film-maker jettisons his camera
Because the truth flies in his face
Like that damned parrot! — Bernadette
Is no different from the woman armed
With a hot iron, and images collapse like
Galaxies in the urchin dust of Delhi's exposed
Alleyways — and it is not India that he has found
It is home . . .
prof nair is fantastic..really nice person. idiotic bernie was hogging her which resulted in my deprivation of alone time with her.argh. but nevermind, there's email. check out her orientation!hiaz, i've been wanting to go to india for really long now.should start planning, then can arrange a trip after A's. peeps, let's all go.
Keane - Can't Stop Now
I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
Busted tooth and a smile
And cigarette ashes in her drink
The kind that goes out and then sleeps for a week
The kind that goes out on her
To give me a reason, for well, I dunno
And maybe she'd take me to France
Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance
In a mansion on the top of a hill
She'd ash on the carpets
And slip me a pill
Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin
And maybe she'd give me a bath
How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
And she and I would sleep on a boat
And swim in the sea without clothes
With rain falling fast on the sea
While she was swimming away, she'd be winking at me
Telling me it would all be okay
Out on the horizon and fading away
And I'd swim to the boat and I'd laugh
I gotta get me a Sylvia Plath
And maybe she'd take me to France
Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance
In a mansion on the top of a hill
She'd ash on the carpets
And slip me a pill
Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin
And maybe she'd give me a bath
How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
rright, postmortum visitations to long dead weirdos aside, my time is now split among film soc, sch work, reading, tv and the net, the last 2 of which i think i deserve copious amounts of. reading the unbearable lightness of being now, which is REALLY GOOD. once u unwrap it from its patina of eroticism(yeah, it's quite RA, even by my standards), you'll discover that kundera weaves so many things into his seemingly oblique narration of infidelity and the pointlessness of love. i love this:
"she yearned for the two of them to merge into a hermaphrodite. Then the other women's bodies would be their playthings."
is such intense jealousy possible? it transcends mere desire to cause the adultress physical hurt, but it invades and encroaches onto the most unexposed and personal arena. you only betray someone in order to betray someone else later on. let's say you betray A for B, but betraying B doesn't necessarily result in the appeasment of A.the point is betray everything, your friends, family, country...and if you've excelled enough and profitted sufficiently from all these past betrayals, you may reach the apex of nihilation, where you virtuously betray yourself and view it as a tour de force zenith of your life. do i have any idea of what i'm trying to say? not really,,,no...
spiderman/peter parker says that with great great power comes great responsibilty, and that sometimes, to do the right thing, you've got to give up the thing you want most, even your dream. what does it take for one to give up his dream? by dream, we define it here as most desireable ambition. can you replace your dream? if your dream stems from your ambition, and you are ambitious out of vanity, then your dream is nothing but a hedonistic onanism. clemency unto oneself ultimately destroys, or so that is what everyone says.
but what's wrong with loving yourself? nietzsche, ever the advocator of self-preservation, preaches that any reliogion founded on the concept of altruism (pity-put bluntly) is doomed. if one says that you have to love yourself before loving others, what is the impetus of loving urself?is it still not the desire to love others, that is, if you subscribe to this theology? therefore, do we forfeit self-gratification if we are to exist as caring human beings?
"suicidal dew flys forth into the burning cauldron of morning"
kill yourself in order to experience rebirth.haha...
I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
Busted tooth and a smile
And cigarette ashes in her drink
The kind that goes out and then sleeps for a week
The kind that goes out on her
To give me a reason, for well, I dunno
And maybe she'd take me to France
Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance
In a mansion on the top of a hill
She'd ash on the carpets
And slip me a pill
Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin
And maybe she'd give me a bath
How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
And she and I would sleep on a boat
And swim in the sea without clothes
With rain falling fast on the sea
While she was swimming away, she'd be winking at me
Telling me it would all be okay
Out on the horizon and fading away
And I'd swim to the boat and I'd laugh
I gotta get me a Sylvia Plath
And maybe she'd take me to France
Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance
In a mansion on the top of a hill
She'd ash on the carpets
And slip me a pill
Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin
And maybe she'd give me a bath
How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
I wish I had a Sylvia Plath
rright, postmortum visitations to long dead weirdos aside, my time is now split among film soc, sch work, reading, tv and the net, the last 2 of which i think i deserve copious amounts of. reading the unbearable lightness of being now, which is REALLY GOOD. once u unwrap it from its patina of eroticism(yeah, it's quite RA, even by my standards), you'll discover that kundera weaves so many things into his seemingly oblique narration of infidelity and the pointlessness of love. i love this:
"she yearned for the two of them to merge into a hermaphrodite. Then the other women's bodies would be their playthings."
is such intense jealousy possible? it transcends mere desire to cause the adultress physical hurt, but it invades and encroaches onto the most unexposed and personal arena. you only betray someone in order to betray someone else later on. let's say you betray A for B, but betraying B doesn't necessarily result in the appeasment of A.the point is betray everything, your friends, family, country...and if you've excelled enough and profitted sufficiently from all these past betrayals, you may reach the apex of nihilation, where you virtuously betray yourself and view it as a tour de force zenith of your life. do i have any idea of what i'm trying to say? not really,,,no...
spiderman/peter parker says that with great great power comes great responsibilty, and that sometimes, to do the right thing, you've got to give up the thing you want most, even your dream. what does it take for one to give up his dream? by dream, we define it here as most desireable ambition. can you replace your dream? if your dream stems from your ambition, and you are ambitious out of vanity, then your dream is nothing but a hedonistic onanism. clemency unto oneself ultimately destroys, or so that is what everyone says.
but what's wrong with loving yourself? nietzsche, ever the advocator of self-preservation, preaches that any reliogion founded on the concept of altruism (pity-put bluntly) is doomed. if one says that you have to love yourself before loving others, what is the impetus of loving urself?is it still not the desire to love others, that is, if you subscribe to this theology? therefore, do we forfeit self-gratification if we are to exist as caring human beings?
"suicidal dew flys forth into the burning cauldron of morning"
kill yourself in order to experience rebirth.haha...
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