Thursday, December 27, 2007

a mail i probally sent most of you

ps- I know I know we all so hate mass mailers but please bear with me (that's the n-th time im saying this yeah?:p). Im calculating calculating-time, pace, space. I promise to mail moe personalised mails once m done (for now, the personal can wait)

Hi folks,

Howss it going? Me been hopping around the whole place these last few weeks. last 3 months have been an overload of things and needed to get away for a while. So Deli-Pushkar-Deli and than Manesar, Gurgaon for a Strategy meet to start off the first official liberal youth forum of India. those 3 days of brainstorming and agreeing and disagreeing were grueling but finally we came up with a concrete plan and also a drafting committee to form a definitive charter. once that's done (should be over in 3 months time), I will post u a note if anyone is interested in being part of the network.
As of now, here's just a link you folks can que into. http://www.asianborderlands.net
From January 16-19 2008, there will be an international conference in
Guwahati (And spread over some other states too) titled: Northeast
India and its transnational neighbours. essentially we will be
focussing on borders and the networks that exist around such areas-
issues like conflict, livelihood, policies wrt this area will be
deliberated upon by scholars from all over- Oxford, uNIV OF aMSTERDAM,
IIT, etc. Panos is collaborating for the non-academic event and right
now im just going bersek organisng and collating documentaries,
theatre groups, artists etc.

And yes, there's Guwahati FOF (Well, im co-ordinating the Liberal youth forum in Northeast but lets take it slow, step by step is the motto here) too. and all the ideas playing in my
brain-endless phone conversations with kripal (another coi-ordinator)as to how to go about it
(mr. ranjan has done the houdini on us but he;s super energetic when
it comes to the real work). I have been finding out about other youth
groups in the region and areas we can work on.
Will send you guys a structured mail once am thru with this backlog.
I might be offline from 27Dec-1st Jan so i did really appreciate if
someone smses me or something if any imp mails are exchanged.


hAVE a terrific year ahead. and though Modi has won (shucks i wanted to avoid being political here but what are we if not the sum of our existences and consciousness) lets not stop dissenting just because the votebank says we r a minority!


Cheers till next time than,

Sush

Monday, November 26, 2007

Thanks to Democracy and Barbarity!!

Though i have not much regard for vicarious communication mediums like chats and emails, i think they are a fascinating place to be. Today my Gtalk message was: first, "the contours of the chasm between Assamese subnationalism and pan-Indianism." second, a little more subversive and callous probally, "the whole concept of India is a big joke, a shameful failure". But im angry, have been angry and agitated since the Dispur incident on Saturday. I have to write something about it to let out that anger. But for the moment, this is what a right wing friend mailed on redaing my Gtalk status message.

I read ur anti-india status msg and i think it was really shameful on ur part
today u want assam to be 'freed' from India but does assam really desrve it....
and whr will that end tommow u may ask guwahati to be a free state and then someone would come around
and say that pan bazar shud be an independent country


I wrote back just now in a rush, while shuttling between the edit table (am working on a documentary on migration and labour equations in Central Asia after the break up on the USSR) and my comp. I know what i will paste here might sound rash and hurried but whatever it is, it is definitely not fabricated.

hi u,

well, im not ashamed of how i feel and what i say though i might not be licensed to say that. and talking about all the stuff from mainland India is all fine and you dont really have to send me an IBN live url to check what is going on in Assam. i have been and will be actively a part of the developments of the shameful horrendous mob riot that took place near Dispur (the administrative capital of Assam) in broad daylight. Im ashamed as an Assamese and very agitated. A curfew was announced in many areas following the riot. But that same eve at 7.30 pm we called a meeting, Assamese civil society representatives if u please (though i still feel that a couple of NGOs, intellectuals and indigenous groups donot represent any civil society unless the people proactively take a step) and passed a resolution around 9. 30pm./ we have seen how the national and local media have portrayed the whole incident giving it hues and images of various orders, and instead of controlling the situation, giving fire to this delicate symbiotic relationship between the tea garden workers and the other people. and yes what happened that day was essentially a class thing. what the local residents did was try to suppress an identity that is as much part of Assam as anything else. and now the Jharkhand govt is trying to gain political mileage outta it. So there, am not throwing dirt at India (anti India msg u said). i hold myself responsible for the sorry state of our nation as well as my fellow citizens. and like i said, you donot know the politics of the Northeast. anyways, the Centre is busy trying to convince everyone that we r a homogenous species. and man, we r amazingly heterogenous. so the idea of a nation state is something that needs to be studied and critiqued. a federation mite b an alternative. i am not too sure. m not talking of independence without the shite that goes along with it. but i am saying, it's time we started discussing alternatives!

I hope you understand me a lil better now.

and i will probably write something on the incident coz only than this anger will subside, this helpless feeling swelling inside me. i heard that phrase twice the other day from eye witnesses "ppl killed each other like cats and dogs". wow. all for violence are we?! there's Modi in Gujarat savagely eliminating an entire breed of people, there's bomb blasts in UP coz nobody cares, Nazification of this country had long begun. the crevices are just starting to get wider.

Take care and think about it.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Fate-igued!

These last three months or so have been a whirlwind of insane activity, people, work, travel and herbs that elevate the less mundane waking hours. This last one week I decided to grace my shack with my solitude and OCD. There has been conflict. And very many contradictions. Lately, I have felt pulled to the very last vestiges of my "sheer energy" by folks and peers. I maintain it all very well, most of the time. But sometimes a voice inside talks to me (am i schizo?) and tells me to go away, far far away. And take it from there. Tiredness is a state of mind, I presume, if you dont add the physical drudgery and the constant swirling white noise in the brain. But than I get emotionally haggard at times and than familiarity has this twisted way of revealing new things, trying to precede what lies in the vague future. Astrologers and tarot card readers act a savvy catalyst to all wanting to hear and evade the impediments set by Fate (harrowed fate that!). And we become mere puppets in this orgasmic understanding of divinity's ways! haha
Man, if i start on those lines now, i can possibly go on for an hour, applying logic and common sense to wallet-pinching astronomically priced gem stones.

I am half mad, so they say. Now, who are these "they"? I probally dont even know how they look like or what their last names are. But am i irreverant to speak thus, about divinity's camouflaged way! (Hats off to Divinity and the sundry rituals that go along with the whol brouhaha).

AS for me, I guess surviving is an art i have learnt the hard way but learnt it proper. And if my fate decides to play spoilsport, i will play along and probally let all things take their own time to reveal their worth to me.

There is conflict, contradiction but there is also endurance and beauty!

So long than.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Presenting Radio Clash I

On Photography

Aspirations have different manifestations. And some manifestations give birth to creative license. What exactly is creative license? And who do we define as an artist in a world of people trying to break away from the clichéd forms of entertainment and livelihood to express a more primitive urge. The urge to create, give form and to share this passion with peers and critics.

Photography is an artistic medium that lends a definitive shape to viscous images that otherwise get lost as our eyes move away to admire and analyse other issues. How do we suspend this animated display of life, color, people, culture and places? The camera becomes a sort of heightened metaphor through which we can freeze these very many details of the world that stretches before our physical selves and immediate environment.

I am no photographer but I am passionate about the medium and slowly picking up the nitty gritties of the trade. The lens fascinates me though I hesitate to give free play to all that I view and perceive, and perception is so essential to everything I see and internalize. Because perception adds meaning and a content to the otherwise hazy cloud of thoughts that constantly flow in my veins.

Travelling has been a passion for as long as I can remember. Give me an adventure, a journey and I will be game. The sights and sounds, the smells and shades, life in motion and fractured beginnings and endings! The lessons of unlearning and the search for cognition through conflict, error and inertia.

And that’s where the camera becomes a mate- a mute renderer of all things plausible, mundane or avant garde.

10 oct, 2007. 18.36hrs

On Writing

All things reveal themselves to me as if I am a conspirer in the vast scheme of things that constitute what is chaos theory today. I feel and I know, I touch and I feel, I write but than again, what do I write? Writing has to be a consistent endeavour. To rephrase Samuel Johnson's words, An amateur, Sir, should keep his writing in constant repair. Scrutinize, abuse, critique and compose like a madman. Gibberish is gibberish because we understand the frivolity of the whole text, while we read through. But any exercise in attempting a piece of writing, gibberish or otherwise, should not be futile. Writing a page every morning, is it so difficult? I ask myself. But that was a rhetorical query I suppose. So many things to express and yet I fall short of proper words and shy away in the veil of metaphors that might make sense to me but what is writing if no one reads it, attempts to reach his own meanings and than finally delivers his verdict and tosses it away. Well, the esteemed reader might even save the article of writing to read, re-read again at his own pace. But I come back to square one again. What is the point of endlessly cribbing about the paucity of time and the mundane nature of a comfortable life when I can cry out in words, release myself from all that binds me and fellow human beings? I might not be doing much at all but at least, I will have a reference point to come back to when I question all that I have been taught to accept.

The search proceeds…

10.10.07, 18.48hrs

A workshop of five days on TV Training for young journalists of the Northeast region (that bloody clichéd definition again!). and it’s intensive, grueling, information-overload and than some more. Per diems and cocktail dinners, that’s what fascinates some of them. While others try to unlearn and yet cant resolve the conflict that thinking individuals experience in short, spastic bursts of restlessness. I go through the motions of the first three days with a spring in my step though occasionally my eyes burn, my back hurts and I catch the flu. I keep to myself on certain hours and than again, I go wild with a forgotten vibrancy at moments that catch me unawares too. And the creative energy within me keeps pestering me, driving my mind loco and compelling me to seek out my own moments of white noise.

I try to channelize my stream of consciousness. Ah, consciousness! The bane of human beings. And I scoff at established notions of feminity and folks think I am just a rebel without a cause. I wish I could explain them about all the colors I see and all the ideas that fool around in my head as I sit on the pot blankly gazing at the white tiled wall in front of me. I wish I could debate libertarianism and Dadaism with some like minded drifter. I wish I could be articulate enough to discuss and question political ideals. But some things have to wait and some things are more private ofcourse. And yes, prince charming, I never was searching for u. I am just dreaming a living dream. This life has never been enough ever, has it now?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"To me the only success, the only greatness, is immortality." - James

Dean, quoted in James Dean: The Mutant King, by David Dalton ( well indeed! Haha)

Air conditioned hospitals and heart surgeons with multiple degrees from fancy universities eloquently spell out the many benefits of a long life. Who the fuck wants a long life now!!! I remember the debates I had with my pa about smoking. He tried to reason it out with me. And I listlessly said, “Health is dispensable”. I don’t hold the same views today. You see, I learn from moment to moment and though I have always been an existentialist I like to see the larger picture and the larger picture doesn’t look so bleak (no thanks to doomsday prophets). And I don’t realy care about many things, many things that make life worthwhile I guess. But the things I care about, I feel too passionately and as I wait for a proper understanding for essentials, I still think pride isn’t a bad thing. As long as it hurts no one else. And as long as I am still open to exploration. Who wants to buy immortality when mortality can be so multifaceted and revealing.

10.10.07. 19.20 hrs

Thursday, July 19, 2007

FROM THE HEIGHTS


By F W Nietzsche

Translated by L A Magnus


1.

MIDDAY of Life! Oh, season of delight!
My summer's park!
Uneaseful joy to look, to lurk, to hark--
I peer for friends, am ready day and night,--
Where linger ye, my friends? The time is right!

2.

Is not the glacier's grey today for you
Rose-garlanded?
The brooklet seeks you, wind, cloud, with longing thread
And thrust themselves yet higher to the blue,
To spy for you from farthest eagle's view.

3.

My table was spread out for you on high--
Who dwelleth so
Star-near, so near the grisly pit below?--
My realm--what realm hath wider boundary?
My honey--who hath sipped its fragrancy?

4.

Friends, ye are there! Woe me,--yet I am not
He whom ye seek?
Ye stare and stop--better your wrath could speak!
I am not I? Hand, gait, face, changed? And what
I am, to you my friends, now am I not?

5.

Am I an other? Strange am I to Me?
Yet from Me sprung?
A wrestler, by himself too oft self-wrung?
Hindering too oft my own self's potency,
Wounded and hampered by self-victory?

6.

I sought where-so the wind blows keenest. There
I learned to dwell
Where no man dwells, on lonesome ice-lorn fell,
And unlearned Man and God and curse and prayer?
Became a ghost haunting the glaciers bare?

7.

Ye, my old friends! Look! Ye turn pale, filled o'er
With love and fear!
Go! Yet not in wrath. Ye could ne'er live here.
Here in the farthest realm of ice and scaur,
A huntsman must one be, like chamois soar.

8.

An evil huntsman was I? See how taut
My bow was bent!
Strongest was he by whom such bolt were sent--
Woe now! That arrow is with peril fraught,
Perilous as none.--Have yon safe home ye sought!

9.

Ye go! Thou didst endure enough, oh, heart;--
Strong was thy hope;
Unto new friends thy portals widely ope,
Let old ones be. Bid memory depart!
Wast thou young then, now--better young thou art!

10.

What linked us once together, one hope's tie--
(Who now doth con
Those lines, now fading, Love once wrote thereon?)--
Is like a parchment, which the hand is shy
To touch--like crackling leaves, all seared, all dry.

11.

Oh! Friends no more! They are--what name for those?--
Friends' phantom-flight
Knocking at my heart's window-pane at night,
Gazing on me, that speaks "We were" and goes,--
Oh, withered words, once fragrant as the rose!

12.

Pinings of youth that might not understand!
For which I pined,
Which I deemed changed with me, kin of my kind:
But they grew old, and thus were doomed and banned:
None but new kith are native of my land!

13.

Midday of life! My second youth's delight!
My summer's park!
Unrestful joy to long, to lurk, to hark!
I peer for friends!--am ready day and night,
For my new friends. Come! Come! The time is right!

14.

This song is done,--the sweet sad cry of rue
Sang out its end;
A wizard wrought it, he the timely friend,
The midday-friend,--no, do not ask me who;
At midday 'twas, when one became as two.

15.

We keep our Feast of Feasts, sure of our bourne,
Our aims self-same:
The Guest of Guests, friend Zarathustra, came!
The world now laughs, the grisly veil was torn,
And Light and Dark were one that wedding-morn.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

pdf and some political thoughts

Hi all,

I have been having some interesting conversations with Sanjib Baruah
these last few days regarding NE borderlands and South Asia and the
political discourses involved in it. Though i am still an amateur
regarding these matters, i just felt like sharing whatever i have got
here.

I am passing on this pdf more as a literary interest so you may choose
to agree or disagree with the author's views and also do frwd me your
views. would love to carry on the conversation from there.

Godspeed till next time than.

and keep the mails coming

Another thing....a friend i sent this pdf to questioned me about
copyright et al...let me assure you that Dr Baruah would be glad if
his book can generate some sorta debate and talk on the issues and
ideas involved. and he knows that m fwrdin the same to some friends
and family.

Also, even i havent read the entire book as yet...just browsed thru a
few pages of the hard copy till now...

Ciao folks

http://www.eastwestcenter.org/publications/search-for-publications/browse-alphabetic-list-of-titles/?class_call=view&pub_ID=2173&mode=view

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Pink plastic

The name comes

to me

again.

The restaurants

and the talks

on the sidewalks;

clear skies

and dazed out dreams.

It reminds me of

perfumed clothes

and serendity,

but than

serendity happens even now

and so often.


(part two)


A story of

the hermit and crab

i saw in a

dream once;

this thing called

real life

is too funny,

the whole business of living.

Polemical dilemma

This.


Aah,

two mere words

and very many musings

later.

An impasse.

9.07.07 (an irritably restless evening…after a long day running around but being practically jobless..but the muse doesn’t humor me too often as is evident by the prosaicness of this shite I pass on as witing)

l'art pour l'art

a friend asked me to define glass just the other day. she works on glass, wire, chrome, etc to come up with unusual and unconventional stuff. i still dont know much about what she does though she has sent me some pictures of her designs and art.
i thought i will personalise this space with the many conversations i have with people from all over the place and from all walks of life, doing their own beautiful and simple things.

now, glass...how would i define it?..umm..quite a difficult query...an
"entity" that is semi liquid, semi solid...malleable in molten state
but brittle whn solid...open to interpretations and myriad
designing...a mirror, nah, a reflecting surface maybe..where images
are rendered as real but is twice removed from reality..
well guess im rambling....u fill me in...
mind's spaced out at work!!!

teme abt ur stuff...and how u go about working on it?

love,
tiki

She writes:

I don't know.
Never made money direct from art that's what you asked.
but work is to spend sometime honestly with a problem,
many people working with instalations deal with glass, broken , mirrowed, and all you said…
I like what you wrot, not so delirious, finding meanings and what is not there.


Art is never POUR, is just art.
bijou.
Sim.

Moi:

i dont much care about the money part as long as one has enough to live a normal life..if u know what i mean! and what are these installlations..can u plz elaborate..and how did u get into the nitty gritties of it?
and art is for the sake of art...when we talk of aesthetic inclinations and the sorts

godspeed.
tiki

and forced homogenisation continues

http://www.telegraphindia.com/1070710/asp/frontpage/story_8039584.asp

Delhi 'profiles' to protect
- Police booklet for Northeast students betrays prejudices
NISHIT DHOLABHAI

New Delhi, July 9: A strange tribe has Delhi police worried. Their women don't cover up enough, they mix with no one and, officers say, their food smells so awful that it is a threat to public order.

The police have now printed a booklet full of well-meaning advice that should help these men and women blend into Delhi society despite the handicap of their "foreign" features.

What has triggered outraged cries of "social profiling" is that this group is made up solely of people from India's Northeast.

West Delhi police, who issued the booklet titled Security Tips for Northeast Students/Visitors in Delhi last month, are now accused of treating these Indians from the hill states as if they were aliens from Timbucktoo.

"Dress code: When in rooms do as Roman does," the police's immortal prose tells the 45,000-odd Northeasterners living in and around the capital.

"Revealing dress be avoided. Avoid lonely road/bylane when dressed scantily. Dress according to sensitivity of the local populace," it adds.

As for food habits, "bamboo shoot, Akhuni and other smelly dishes should be prepared without creating ruckus in neighbourhood".

Bamboo shoots feature in the cuisines of most of the northeastern states while the akhuni, made from fermented soya bean, is a Naga staple.

Grace Guite, president of the Paite Students' Organisation in Delhi, said the booklet implied that women from the region had "loose morals".

She added that while food habits should be a personal affair, the reference to "ruckus in the neighbourhood" only showed how unsafe the capital was for anyone.

More so for women students from the Northeast. After two of them were raped in May-June 2005, fellow students had said the city's habit of viewing people from the region as aliens led to their being segregated and harassed, and to the girls being seen as easy prey.

The introduction to the booklet, titled "Words to Seven Sisters (the seven northeastern states)", has been written by the deputy commissioner (West Delhi), Robin Hibu, an IPS officer who is himself from the Northeast.

It refers to one of the rapes: "A proud father sent his only daughter in Delhi to make her IAS/IPS but she returned back as drug addict, promising boy landed into police case for drunken brawl, late night parties with loud music landed six youngsters into police case, revealing dressed up parties lass was molested and thrown out from moving vehicle badly bruised after being outraged…."

According to Guite, this suggests the police think only women from the Northeast are unsafe in Delhi.

Hibu, officer in charge of co-ordinating on Northeast issues, denies the charge of social profiling. He insists that visitors from the Northeast do not interact enough with the local population and blames this on a language barrier and the visitors' "features akin to neighbouring countries".

JNU researcher Malem Ningthouja said, "This is called 'othering', identifying them as a separate group…. The police (think they) are civilising the people from the Northeast."

Hibu has no time for such criticism. "I want emotional and patriotic integration," he said. "It's only because of a handful of people and NGOs back home that they feel separate."

People from the region, who have "different sensibilities", need to be told about Delhi, most of which "is still orthodox", he argued. He agreed that there was also a need to educate Delhi residents about the Northeast.

The booklet also has useful tips for any visitor to Delhi, advising them on personal safety and prevention of break-ins, muggings and vehicle theft. The booklets have been sent to college principals, Church leaders, MPs and the various state houses.

END

i guess this booklet is another chain of regressive and "clamping down" events..ye all, lets all become Ionesco's rhinoceroses and forget our collective memories as human beings!! this new regulation disgusted me a lot so i thought i did send it out...i wanna swear man!!

the replies i got...

Bro:
What’s your opinion?
moi:
i think it's wrong..and morally degrading to people belonging to the northeastern part of India..for that matter, i think i dont agree with the "dismissal" classification of the 7 states in the region as Northeast for that matter, as we are all differnt with differnt lifestyles and cultures etc.
and i guess we both know how the Dilliwallas look at the northeast...so..well, i just dint like the report as i said it today..itw as the main news in Telegraph...shocking how the Northern end of India defines everything wrt itself and its own lived realities.
what abt u? whats ur view....mine is amateurish but u asked for it nevertheless.

Bro:I understand that at a first view it seems definitely very outrageous. However, they could have instead put it up in a different way instead of defining it as north easterns etc. But I am a bit confused. Might take some time to have a concrete opinion. But this sentence is really taking my interest “A strange tribe has Delhi police worried. Their women don't cover up enough, they mix with no one and, officers say, their food smells so awful that it is a threat to public order.”

I am surprised how a qualified journalist could pick up words and sentences like these. This delineates the entire north east from the rest of India… And people ask why many north easterns do not consider themselves Indians. The article talks about “foreign” features. Well who is to decide what is foreign in India, a country with so many diverse features.

I understand that the whole idea of this segregation is not very good on the part of the administration. But they are doing it for a reason. But the article is meant to generate public interest. They could have been a bit more sober of course without avoiding the actual facts.
What do u say?

And than one of my non-violent Assamese partners got agitated while he read the report in Delhi..

you kidding me ya. fuck what the hell is the world coming to??? this is so fucking disgusting. i need a tank to blow up this city.

And today, another strong woman i know talked to me of protests and subversion...

Im game, i say.


http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_QC2Sp30-cHg/RpSQNGUV42I/AAAAAAAAAAY/XbNt1YduROo/s320/DSC00852.JPG

and since im lazy..

Hi All,

I have made a space which i hope to use whenever the restless spirit needs to explore and to direct all the energies into a disciplined set-up of attempting things, evaluating ideas, etcetc. And because i have nothing better to say at the moment though i wish i could go on and on.. here are some lyrics to keep my boredom at bay.

Artist: Lyrics
Song: La Vie Boheme Lyrics

Cafe Owner:
No please no
Not tonight please no
Mister- Can't you go-
Not tonight- Can't have a scene

ROGER
What?

Cafe Owner:
Go, please go;
You- Hello sir
I said no
Improtant customer

MARK
What am I- Just a blur?

Cafe Owner:
You sit all night -You never buy!

MARK
That's a lie - That's a lie
I had a tea the other day

Cafe Owner:
You couldn't pay

MARK
Oh yeah

COLLINS
Benjamin Coffin III- Here?

Cafe Owner:
Oh no!

ALL
Wine and beer!

MAUREEN
The enemy of Avenue A
We'll stay

Cafe Owner:
Oiy Vey!

COLLINS
What brings a Mogul in his own mind to the Life Cafe?

BENNY
I would like to propose a toast
To Maureen's noble try
It went well

MAUREEN
Go to hell

BENNY
Was the yuppie scum stomped?
Not counting the homeless
How many tickets weren't comp'ed?

ROGER
Why Did Muffy--

BENNY
Alison

ROGER
Miss The Show?

BENNY
There was a death in the family
If you must know

ANGEL
Who died?

BENNY
Our akita

MARK, RODGER, ANGEL, COLLINS
Evita

BENNY
Mimi- I'm surprised
A bright and charming girl like you
Hangs out with these slackers
(Who don't adhere to deals)

They make fun -Yet I am the one
Attempting to do some good
Or do you really want a neighborhood
Where people piss on your stoop every night?

Bohemia, Bohemia
Is a fallacy in your head
This is Calcutta
Bohemia is dead

MARK
Dearly beloved, we gather here to say
our goodbyes

COLLINS & ROGER
Dies Irae - Dies Illa
Kyrie Eleison
Yitgadal V' Yitkadash (etc.)

MARK
Here she lies
No one knew her worth
The late great daughter of Mother Earth
On these nights when we celebrate the birth
In that little town of Bethlehem
We raise our glass- You bet your ass to-
La Vie Boheme

ALL
La Vie Boheme
La Vie Boheme
La Vie Boheme
La Vie Boheme

MARK
To days of inspiration,
Playing hookey, making something
Out of nothing, the need
To express-
To communicate,
To going against the grain,
Going insane,
Going mad

To loving tension, no pension
To more than one dimension,
To starving for attention,
Hating convention, hating pretension,
Not to mention of course,
Hating dear old mom and dad

To riding your bike
Midday past the three piece suits-
To fruits- To no absolutes-
To Absolut- To choice-
To the Village Voice-
To any passing fad

To being an us- For once-
Instead of a them-

ALL
La Vie Boheme
La Vie Boheme

MAUREEN
Is the equipment in a pyramid?

JOANNE
It is, Maureen

MAUREEN
The mixer dosn't have a case
Don't give me that face

MR. GREY
AHHEMM

MAUREEN
Hey Mister- She's my sister

MR. GREY
So that's five miso soup,
Four seaweed salad
Three soy burger dinner,
Two tofu dog platter
And one pasta with meatless balls

A BOY
Eww

COLLINS
It tastes the same

MIMI
If you close your eyes

MR. GREY
And thirteen orders of fries
Is that it here?

ALL
Wine and beer!

MIMI & ANGEL
To hand-crafted beers made in local breweries
To yoga, to yogurt, to rice and beans and cheese
To leather, to dildos, To curry Vindaloo
To Huevos Rancheros and Maya Angelou

MAUREEN & COLLINS
Emotion, devotion, to causing a commotion,
Creation, Vacation

MARK
Mucho masturbation

MAUREEN & COLLINS
Compassion, to fashion, to passion
When it's new

COLLINS
To Sontag

ANGEL
To Sondheim

FOUR PEOPLE
To anything taboo

COLLINS & ROGER
Ginsberg, Dylan, Cunningham and Cage

COLLINS
Lenny Bruce

ROGER
Langston Hughes

MAUREEN
To the stage!

PERSON #1
To Uta

PERSON #2
To Buddha

PERSON #3
Pablo Neruda, too

MARK & MIMI
Why Dorothy and Toto went over the rainbow
To blow off Auntie Em

ALL
La Vie Boheme

MAUREEN
And wipe the speakers off before you pack

JOANNE
Yes, Maureen

MAUREEN
Well- Hurry back

MR. GREY
Sisters?

MAUREEN
We're close

ANGEL, COLLINS, MAUREEN, MARK & MR GREY
Brothers!

MARK, ANGEL, MIMI & 3 OTHERS
Bisexuals, trisexuals, Homo Sapiens,
Carcinogens, hallucinogens, men,
Pee Wee Herman
German wine, turpentine, Gertrude Stein
Antonioni, Bertolucci, Kurosawa
Carmina Burana

ALL
To apathy, to entropy, to empathy, ecstasy
Vaclav Havel- The Sex Pistols, 8BC
To no shame- Never playing the fame game

COLLINS
To marijuana

ALL
To sodomy
It's between God and me
To S & M

BENNY
Waiter...Waiter...Waiter

ALL
La Vie Boheme

COLLINS
In honor of the death of Bohemia an impromtu salon will commence immediately following dinner...
Mimi Marquez, clad only in bubble wrap, will perform her famous lawn chair-handcuff dance to the sounds of iced tea being
stirred.

ROGER
And Mark Cohen will preview his new documentary about his inability to hold an erection on high holy days.

MARK
And Maureen Johnson, back from her spectacular one-night engagement at the eleventh street lot, will sing Native American
tribal chants backwards through her vocoder, while accompanying herself on the electric cello- Which she has never never
studied.

BENNY
Your new boyfriend doesn't know about us?

MIMI
There's nothing to know-

BENNY
Don't you think that we should discuss-

MIMI
It was three months ago-

BENNY
He dosn't act like he's with you-

MIMI
We're taking it slow-

BENNY
Where is he now?

MIMI
He's right- Hmm

BENNY
Uh huh

MIMI
Where'd he go?

MARK
And Roger will attempt to write a bittersweet, evocative song

(Roger picks up a guiter and plays)

MARK
That doesn't remind us of 'Musetta's
Waltz'

COLLINS
Angel Dumott Schunard will model the latest fall fashions from Paris while accompanying herself on the 10-gallon plastic
pickle tub.

ANGEL
And Collins will recount his exploits
as an Anarchist- Including the tale of
his successful reprogramming of the
MIT virtual reality equipment to self-destruct as it broadcasts the words:

ALL
'Actual Reality - Act Up - Fight AIDS!'

BENNY
CHECK!!

MIMI
Excuse me- Did I do something wrong?
I get invited, then Ignored all night long

ROGER
I've been trying- I'm not lying-
No one's perfect, I've got baggage

MIMI
Life's too short, Babe, time is flying
I'm looking for baggage that goes
with mine

ROGER
I should tell you-

MIMI
I've got baggage, too

ROGER
I should tell you--

BOTH
Baggage- Wine-


OTHERS
And Beer!

(beeper alarms go off)

MIMI
AZT break

ROGER
You?

MIMI
Me. You?

ROGER
Mimi

[Thanks to shay, Dianne, Ryan, Lila for corrections]

..and thats the last post from xanga

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

The following is from the CD by Fortner Anderson + tape/head: he sings

OMAR Khadr was 15 years old in July of 2002 when he was captured in Afghanistan by U.S. Special Forces during Operation "Enduring Freedom." He has remained in U.S. detention since then and is currently one of approximately 500 prisoners held at the U.S. Guantanamo Bay facility in Cuba. The United Nations has demanded that this prison camp should be closed and its detainees either released or put on trial.

SUBSEQUENT to his capture, Omar Khadr, a Canadian citizen, was imprisoned and tortured at the notorious prison at Baghram Air Force Base in Afghanistan. The tortures described in the piece are those likely to have been inflicted upon him between the ages of 15 and 19. These are based upon testimonies of former detainees of the Guantanamo facility, representations by Khadr's legal councils, and the investigations into torture practices of the U.S. government and its proxies by Non Governmental Organizations such as Amnesty International.

THE U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that the military trial that the U.S. government had devised to prosecute "enemy combatants" such as Omar Khadr is illegal as it breeches both U.S. law and the Geneva conventions. Yet following that ruling, Omar Khadr remains in a legal black hole unable to obtain due process and possibility of fair trail. He remains subject to cruel and degrading treatment and long periods of isolation. After four years of interrogations he is said to be despondent, subject to profound despair, and suicidal.

For those young men caught within the American gulag and in particular, Omar Khadr, it is imperative that we speak out to denounce these blatant violations of human rights and international law. A collective silence of the American and Canadian people will doom these young men and it will show a lie in the heart of our own freedom.

To learn more of the plight of the thousands of men held in the vast complex of U.S. and U.S. proxy torture facilities in countries scattered across the globe, please check-out the following web sites:

Amnesty International: www.amnesty.org/pages/guantanamobayindex-eng

Human Rights Watch: www.hrw.org/campaigns/torture.htm

Caged Prisoners : www.cageprisoners.com

Canadian Broadcasting Corporation : www.cbc.ca/news/background/khadr/

HE SINGS

he is a boy

a boy

who sings

who trills, warbles and chants

he is a boy

a boy

who sings

who sings like a bird

he is a boy

who sings

of days drowned under earth

of nights rendered into dawn

a boy who sings of the broken tomb of his father

who sings of his father

who sings of the raging grief of his mother

who sings of his mother

he is a boy who sings

he is a boy who sings

into pale faces

that burn with the pride

the pride of their stiff naked lips

he sings of a room

a table, a bowl and a chair

the bowl resting upon the chair

his body resting upon the table

his head resting

resting in the bowl

his lungs bursting as his face rests in the bowl of water

he sings

he sings of

his tongue split and splintered to its dark red root

he sings of the soles of his feet

he sings of the soles of his feet that must not fall

he sings of the soles of his feet that fall and the sparks that lift them again

he is a boy

he is a boy who caws, who squeals, who brays

who sings his song

who sings his song while hanging

who sings his song while hanging from a hook

he is a boy that sings while hanging from his wrists

hanging from a hook

hooded and bound

twenty-one days, 16 hours a day

he hangs and he sings like a bird

he is a boy who sings a song

who sings into a hole

a hole in the earth

the earth where he has been chained

chained for 30 days

for one hundred days

for two hundred days

for three hundred days

he sings the cold muzzle slipped between young lips

teeth and tongue

he sings of the shock

the shocks

and the urine and shit that flow after each shock

each new shock to his anus

he sings when the coals of Winstons and Camels and Marlboros burn small circular

wounds along his arms

he sings

he sings shackled and draped naked upon a table

as a boy from Georgia or Tennessee

whispers whispers

he sings of his fear

the fear in his young cock

his young cock caught in the blades

the sharp blades of his jailors' scissors

he sings of the blood

the blood of a young woman

spread upon his chest

as she whispers

whispers desecration

into the warmth of his ear

he sings of his interrogators whose sons and grandsons

will come, will come

to beat him

beat him in their turn

he sings the song of a slow turning wheel

turning without end

as he crawls to his cot in a cage 6 feet by 12

open to the rain

open to the wind

open to the night

open to the screech of the gulls that wheel above

that do not know and do not care

he sings

four hundred days

five hundred days

six hundred days

he sings of Canada

oh Canada

the Maple Leafs

and the dark eyes of his sister

he sings of a merciful and a vengeful god

he sings of the martyr's victory

he sings like a bird in the butcher's fist

he sings as the butcher's red fists beat his song into the sand

he sings of the implacable sand and of the red specked breath that flies

that flies from countless round pink holes into eternity

eternity that holds his song in the teeth of its metal flames

eight hundred days

nine hundred days

one thousand days

twelve hundred days

he is now seventeen years old

he too fears the fire

he too fears the end

and that there will be no end

he sings of his cup

his blanket

his holy book

a song

a song of three emaciated comforts

in a cage a boy sings his song

a song without sound

with no voice, cry or scream

his song stiff with silence

he sings but we do not hear

he sings but can not hear

we cannot hear in our silence

such a fearsome quiet

before dawn

in darkness

he sings

he still sings

this boy

this boy who sings

alone

*********

Fortner Anderson

hullo..wake up

hungry, bored, sleepy, post-lunch lull (but not lunched yet)...
i want to write something...a prose piece...been thinking about sundry subjects these last few evenings to scribble about aimlessly but every other evening my comp gets hijacked by people- a bunch of loonie young boys spending their summer hols in lahe laheland (translated: the slow slow land, but i did rather imagine it as neverland) and ganging up at a spooky terrace every evening to count stars and play make-believe cricket with coconut shells; a bunch of brand new engineers done with 8th sem and stealing time before that fateful call for getting "corporatised" comes; post office conversations with the odd drink and shitting rocks in obscure getaways!!
so what exactly has been happening these last few days? difficult query that..when you are done with the drinks and the conversations and you head back to your own hideout to mull over the events of the day. Life, life, life. that's what been happening..and we lazy, semi-dazed, idealistic bumchums have yet not written any one of our collective thoughts and random talks!

poems..(a series on similar themes n moods)

Hourglass/Timepiece

The hour fails to impress

With the gravity of its destiny

Clock ticks away, reading

minutes,

seconds

and

micro-seconds.

The ant is dead

Long been dead

On the skin of my arm

Mashed in indifferent irritation.

And the insects crowd the screen

Of this laptop

15 seconds of warmth

Before the town shuts down.

Dogs in garages and high security lawns

Rest their wet noses on the cold earth.

Sweat trickles down the calves of my arms

The ennui of the moment lingers

Painfully long.



Than it gets dark

Stars shoot up in the

wild west horizon

The sky still sparkles

with distant Diamonds.

21.06.07 23:51hours

All along the watchtower

The paradox of

Modern society

And people like me

Is something very intricate

The dimensions and the dynamics

And the bouts of nostalgic

Of an era gone by.

Of youth, of elegance

And the days of living carelessly.

And than a song plays

on the radio

and the melody

floats on

like an afterglow.

A summer time spent in

The monsoons

And times

Of people.

Discovering

Civilizations.

Coming home

To one’s

Own self.

25.06.07 17.19hrs

Nearing eventide..and after

Up flew the eagle

Becoming a part of the circle

Of his mates;

The canvasses on the sky

Stretch to

Accommodate

The gathering.

Clouds and their silver linings

And their blue counterparts.

Twilight’s the lamp-tighting time

The offering of ‘dhuna’-

(that delicious smoke made

with coconut barks, fire

and other miscellaneous

Ingredients) - to

The evening spirits

As the drifters waywardly

Pass by

The solitary village post

The sodium campus lights

The muezzin’s azaan.

25.06.07

The difference between the living and the dead

A dying

Relationship

Is a sad sight

A lump in the throat

As you ruminate

which isn’t too

often in these

fast days.


The lotus

In its

Rotten marsh

Yet grace personified;


That little

Loco heart

Went off to

Chase arbit dreams

And from there

Hangs a

Tale;


Seeking a lost perfection

Tossed and twisted

By the dirt

That blew

Over your face;


Traditional mores

In a judgmental society

But civilization is a

Part of existing;


A solitary thought

Ponders at your

Brow

And

The vicious circle

Begins.

25.06.07 19.13hrs

attempting a self definition if u please;p

17.06.07

A thought just struck me while compiling a winamp playlist for my evening sky gazing mode. About the random selections we make in life. Like deciding on listening to a new album and than picking a track at random. We have so many similar such random incidents; that choice nature and circumstance throw on us to take an action of coherent importence.

My dilemma is somewhat existentialist in the peculiar way it comes to me. I have a belief in the nothingness of things. Of the ephemerality of this world’s lights and sounds.

The Corrs,” I listen to the radio” playing.

21.06.07. on a sunny late-afternoon when a sick leave was postponed;

i am

a product of my thoughts

my environment and my memories

my peculiar peeves and my endless philosophizing

my schooling and the pros and cons of education

of the conversations under the sky

the daughter of my parents

my brother’s sister

the many relationships we make in life

a child-woman still

the forgotten idealistic bohemia

the understanding of my readings of eclectic books

the desire for coherence in images

made of the mud, salt and soul

the irreverent traditional human being

lots of chatter and silences

a passionate and feeling woman

the disillusionment of modern society’s frills and hypocrisies

sum of all the accidents originating from chaos theory

every lived experience of travels and travelers

a germ in the great scheme of things

a face with two large droopy eyes

the realization of the plays and cinema I watch

scattered words washed away by the waves from the sand

the stories that I heard in my ma’s womb

rain, history, mythology, civilization

a pagan

a mass of raw emotions

inertia, flux and caricatures

the spirit that falls in love with the moon every night

smoke, smoke and smoke

many names, many identities

many things for many people

part of the phantoms in your closet

a sexless nude portrait in the chapel

art and personification

about journeys, dead butterflies on my tabletop

and a long gasp of exhilaration before eventide.

delayed decoding..

19.06.07 12.40 am

Long eves spent in the lonely hill

Conversations, thoughts, bees and butteflies;

And the daily chats with the migrant maid!


Grunge modes and glam modes

The solitary chase into the wild vast night.

And activism in all its varied natural states;


The readings on the existence of consciousness

And ‘The Reprieve’ with Sartre

On the bed with so many pillows.


There was this walk

Along the peculiar stream

The hellos exchanged with domestic dogs

And strays.


Rituals of opening the wide window panes

And gazing at green trees on the near sky

Feng-shuis and the literature of nationalities.


A trip with Everett Ullysses

And the jokes at the expense of morality

And a smattering of musical phrases;


Perfecting the art of the man and his art

And thoughts of revolution:

Anarchy, Sweetness, joie-de-vivre.

18.06.07

So how are we today? After the morn showers when the heavens opened up to a state full of people..and than the walk down the univ lane and the talks and the conversations..the politics of the real life…anyways than, back at home with a lingering headache and that “buring” of the eyes and than this family comes up from nowhere…and than we do the 5am dance…it’s nice..flamboyant..without the glitters of the material life..memories of candlelight conversations….and trying to gaze at the moon and the star’s position..somebody told me it was a “grohon”…picking up a book from the mysteries of my living room and discovering it’s got something to do with Ginsberg..and than it had the personal touch..To X…from Y…(now that’s a one for the memories)..!

And so a conversation on culture, linguistics and the politics of globasation and technology…and about the salad days..the bicycle rides and the trips to nowhere..the mischiefs of school and first love letters..Quite an aptitude for nostalgia u might say!

Friday, June 15, 2007

an interesting play i came across..

"If you wanna wanna be alive"
Durga Chew-Bose

Durga Chew-Bose wrote this play in 6 hours for a school drama festival while studying at the Armand Hammer United World College in Montezuma, New Mexico.


SCENE 1

A girl named Smith. Sitting on the edge of the stage. Maybe some chill jazz playing in the background. Talking to the audience the whole time.

Smith-What would you do? What would you do if you had one day? What would you do if you had one day to live? Would you go to a bar, and buy as many drinks as you can, and trip on dialogue with a bartender who's never met you-Bullshit your life to him and create stories about loves you've never had, and places you've only seen in faded vacation magazines that lie in the waiting room of the hospital. Or get into your car, turn on the ignition, and drive. Drive until you run out of gas.--Until your tank decides your destination-sitting on the hood of your car, blowing smoke at the stars, watching it dance out of your lips…and waiting. OR, you could always just buy a disposable camera, and take pictures of your favorite places. Like the park bench just by your house, or the jazz section of the audio department in the library where you would spend countless hours not thinking.--Once the role was done, you could mail it to the person who sees you the most, but knows you the least-your neighbor. Now at least, he would know you.

She looks down at her hands, and then pulls a gun out of her jacket pocket.

Smith-I didn't do any of those things. What I did do was buy a gun.

SCENE 2

Smith walks into the local radio station. Still talking to the audience, but doing the actions she describes. Example: walking in with gun while talking to the audience, radio station people running out, walking into the glass enclosed DJ room, putting headphones on, and locking the door. -All the while talking to the audience.

Smith: So I guess what I did was a little much like a Quentin Tarantino, seventies music inspired scene. I walked into the local radio station, kicked everyone out, and locked myself in a room full of LPs, and one hit wonders.

Looks at the audience, then her gun, and then back at the audience

Smith: It's funny how people listen to you when you've got a 9mm gripped between your fingers.

Enters the janitor, Beverly, unaffected by Smith and her gun, and the commotion-sweeping the floor, with headphones on and humming some old school Motown hit. Smith sees her outside the disk jockey room-bangs on the window, shows her the gun. Beverly takes off her headphones, and slowly puts down the broom.

Smith looks at the audience. Scratches her head a little with the gun.

Smith: what would you do? What would you do if the tick tock of time was like fate on your wrist?

She throws her gun down and opens the door for Beverly. Beverly enters; Smith looks at her nametag and introduces herself. Beverly looks nervous, the whole time.

Smith: I'm Smith, and you're Beverly. And I'm taking over for now. And I promise you we won't be strangers by the end of the night.

Beverly: I'm just here to sweep floors, and rub coffee stains off the tables.

Smith grins. Looks around the room. Touches the records in the shelves. And grins again.

Smith: Are you telling me you never indulge in a little Stones, or Marvin Gaye while cleaning coffee stains.

And as she puts her headphones on, she sings, and picks up the broom, and dances around the room. And sings a little to the audience. "let's get it on" is playing.

Smith: "I've been really trying baby, trying to hold back that feeling for so long…and if you feel, like I feel baby."

Beverly grins. And joins in.

Smith: See I told you. How many strangers, have you done that with before…we're practically life long friends now.

Smith looks at the audience.

Smith: oh, the irony in 'life long'

Beverly picks up the broom, and continues cleaning.

Smith sits back down puts on the headphones and starts her broadcast.

Smith: ok let's do this. "Live from 107. 3 KISS radio- this is my life in song. -- -commercial free beats that capture the first album you ever bought, your last day as a virgin, and the one song that would kick your ass out of bed on Monday mornings. I guess you could say the soundtrack, to my life. This is Smith, and I'm not taking requests. This is fiction, based on the greatest story ever told."

She looks at Beverly, and puts on CCR "Have you ever seen the rain?"

Smith takes off the headphones, and sits back.

Smith: See Bev…I can call you that right?

Beverly still a little apprehensive, and eyeing the gun, nods yes… (CCR is still playing softly in the background)

Smith: I first heard this song one morning when I was sixteen sitting on my balcony hammock reading. Suddenly drops of water started soaking my pages. I looked up, and saw my hippie upstairs neighbor watering her plants, and not paying attention to what she was doing. She was dancing and shaking her head back and forth, and singing along. When I looked down at my page, it was soaked-and I could no longer read anything. I don't even remember the book I was reading. But I remember thinking I love living in apartments-with hippie neighbors off course.

Beverly looks up from her sweeping, and leans her chin against her broom.

Beverly: you know, when I hear this song, I think about the time I got my first car. I was so excited at the time that I made a mix tape right away. The thing is, I was too impatient at the time to actually make a whole mix, so I only recorded that song. I climbed into my car, and played it on repeat. I got sick of it pretty fast. And so did my neighborhood, because I was still too scared to drive on the highway, so I just drove in circles around my block. I retired that song pretty early.

Smith grins, and puts the headphones back on. Bev goes back to cleaning. The phone rings. Smith answers. All of the conversation on the radio.

Smith: Smith here. And Beverly too. And our memories of first cars and apartment fever. Anything I can help you with? Any triggered memory you would like to share?

Woman on other line. Really loud and drunk. Her name is Shirley.

Shirley: Actually, you can help me. I've drunk too much, and can't see straight. Or walk straight. But your music is good for me-good for me right now. It's better than conversation. Or infomercials on TV, I've already bought one blender, and two ab workout tapes, that I'll regret tomorrow morning. -Anyways, so what gives with you DJing the late night program? I've never heard you before.

Smith: Funny story, I walked into the station with a gun, and took over the radio waves. Something I've always wanted to check off on my to-do list before I die. That and kiss someone under water, and write a book.

Smith laughs, and looks at Beverly who laughs too.

Smith: no, I just lying, but not about kissing somebody under water.

Shirley screams into the phone drunkenly.

Shirley: I've kissed somebody under water once. I sneaked into my neighbor's pool with my boyfriend. We were making so much noise, that the neighbors woke up, and came outside. We dove underwater, and he kissed me. It wasn't romantic. And it was hard to do. Not like the fucking movies. Nope.

She pauses-and yells back into the phone.

Shirley: I should make a to-do list too. Because if I don't, I'll end up drunk every night, buying blenders for the rest of my life!

Smith looks at the audience.

Smith: If only everyone had nothing better to do than to buy blenders.

Smith puts her headphones back on.

Smith: Ok, to anyone who's still listening. To anyone who has a to-do list. Here's a little Dylan.

Plays Dylan's "Don't think twice it's alright" (not too loud, and not too soft) All three of the women go back to their respective parts. Shirley channel surfs, with the phone still against her ear, and glass next to her. She looks at the empty glass, and then back at the TV. Smith, looks at her watch. She sighs a couple times. Looks around at all the records. Doesn't smile. The song fades. (Not the whole song played) Beverly brooms toward the audience, and has a short monologue.

Bev: I know what would be number one on my to-do list. I would buy a car. A car with tinted windows. I've always wanted a car with tinted windows. Whenever I see a car with tinted windows, I'm always so curious as to who's inside. I would love to be somebody's intrigue, just for once.

Beverly returns to cleaning, but isn't as concentrated as she was before. As the Dylan song fades, all three characters return to their original parts.

Shirley: You still there? That song sobered me up a little. Actually, the memories are what did it. I'd forgotten about the history music brings. I'd forgotten about the high I would get. Like the buzz you get from a good conversation. Like the one we're having right now. It's been a long time since I've had some good dialogue. You know?

Smith: yup.

Smith looks at her watch. A lot more. She starts to get more tired. "Hallelujah"-Jeff Buckley starts to play.

Shirley: So I'm getting a little tired. And I think I might have good dreams tonight. With an even better soundtrack. Thank you for that, Smith. For the first time, in a long time, I want to wake up early. You know, so I can feel the crisp morning. And taste the day.

Smith: Peace. Shirley….oh wait, Shirley, if you had one theme song, what would it be?

Shirley: Tiny dancer-Elton John.

They both hang up.

Beverly talks to the audience.

Bev: You know I swept the same spot for a couple hours tonight. You know I never thought I was going to have a gun pointed to me tonight. You know, I haven't thought about my first car in a very long time. Sometimes we create non-existent nostalgia to make us smile. But tonight it was real.

She puts her broom down and turns off the lights. Smith is left sitting in the dare-with her headphones still on. The only light is coming from the street lamp outside. She signs off the radio with this monologue. Waits a good while before she starts her monologue.

Smith: What would you do if you only one day to live? Would you spend time with the ones that love you? Would you confront your greatest fear? Would you confess your love? Would you spend the night with two strangers? I would. So many things I've done, I regret. Regret stings. But tonight was damn good. And like in the end of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid, when Redford and Newman run out, and time freezes, I'm signing off. Remember, this was fiction based on the greatest story ever told. Fuck it. This was so cliché.

She takes off the headphones, looks around the room, and picks up the gun, and stares at it for a while. She gets up and turns her back to the audience. BLACKOUT. And fade out of Jeff Buckley.



a conversation...
HARD BALL AT THE WAILING WALL
Robert J. Lewis

* * * * * * * * * *

Miraculously surviving CNN's network of shredding machines and their backups, the following transcript was found intact and spittle-stuck to the bottom of bin-22.

Wailing DomeWailind Dome 2INQUISITOR: Do you ever think of the Mothers and families of the innocent young men and women you brainwash into becoming terrorists, cold-blooded murderers?

Activist: Do you ever think of the Mothers and families of innocent Palestinians who have been murdered by Israelis?

If I may be allowed to speak of them according to their calling, their profession -- they are neither murderers nor terrorists: they are soldiers. Secondly, they are not brainwashed and we do not solicit: they come to us voluntarily. There are people on waiting lists waiting their turn to serve the cause of the liberation of Palestine. We often meet with the parents and brothers and sisters of the martyrs, and when your western Press shows pictures of grieving Mothers weeping over their dead children, they conveniently don't report that these Mothers would wish the same thing again and again for their children because they believe the Palestinian people are entitled to a homeland – the land that was once theirs. As a Father with 3 daughters, I cried when my first daughter left our home for the last time to live with the man she married. The fact that I cried didn't mean I disapproved of, or rejected her right to happiness and marriage.

INQUISITOR: How does your conscience allow you to set these mostly young innocent men and women onto a path that will result in their certain death and the deaths of innocent civilians?

Activist: How does your conscience allow your Press to systematically consign the murder of innocent Palestinians to the back pages of your newspapers? What fiction, the West calls the 6 o'clock News, would have its listeners believe that an Israeli life is inherently more valuable than a Palestinian life?

If it is universally true that all human beings would rather live than not live, shouldn't you, in the West, be asking why so many Palestinians are volunteering to die, when we have just established that everyone would rather live than not live? How many consecutive negative experiences does it take to grow what you call a terrorist? I strongly suspect you are incapable of formulating such questions because the constructs of your culture don't allow you to comprehend that our martyrs are fighting for their homeland, for their dignity and basic rights which Israel has systematically deprived them of. When they come to me, they are coming to serve the cause of Palestine's liberation. And to your question how does my conscience allow this? I do what I do precisely because I have a conscience, because I love and care for my people. No less than average Israelis love and care for their people. We all come from the same seed.

INQUISITOR: But aren't these innocent men and women 'brainwashed' to believe they are going to martyr's heaven, otherwise they wouldn't need middlemen like you?

Activist: Another misconception sustained and propagated by the West. Our martyrs are no more brainwashed or outraged than Americans would be if a belligerent nation were to enter America and take over the State of Texas. If American soldiers can volunteer to fight and die for their homeland, for their beliefs, so can Palestinians. Our role is to fine-tune the martyr's heavenly aspirations with political ones. In some cases, if not most, the martyr, who might be Christian, is motivated by the political situation on the ground.

What you in the West are afraid to face is that all of you, without exception, have lost the power to believe. You go to your places of worship but you don't believe, or act in a manner consistent with your belief, or in a manner that honors and befits your God because there is an ungodly separation of Church and State. Unlike yourselves, we don't dress one way for our places of worship, and then wear mini skirts and thongs outside these places. To us, that is a joke, a blasphemy, a contradiction the West calls freedom. What kind of religion is it that once outside your religious institutions, everything is permitted? Is it politically incorrect to mention that where the pandemic of AIDS in Africa ends is where Islam begins? One day the West will realize that the concept of freedom finds its true home and flourishes best under the vigilance and care of Islam.

In your history, there was a Christian time when you believed, but that time has long past. If I'm not mistaken, one of your great philosophers, Nietzsche, wrote that God Is Dead, and the reason your God is dead is because you're all too busy thinking about your new home, your new car, your status, the stock market, your job, your vacation, what to wear today, what film to rent, how to increase the number of available TV channels. What's very plain to us, but still unremarked by yourselves, is that there's no time for God in your culture. And so what do you do when confronted with a people who not only believe in God, but actually live according to God's will, both in spirit and deed. You demonize us. You turn our believers into monsters, like you're trying to do to me now, as we speak. You deny us our belief because you yourself don't believe. And your hatred of us is disguised envy because you know that all the unmatched genius and science of the West cannot produce a weapon like our martyr: only the chemistry of belief can produce such a weapon. And then you hate us even more because such a weapon forces you to acknowledge us, to talk to us, to respect us, an unarmed, impoverished, suppressed people, because there is no defense against the martyr, other than granting us the basis upon which your political belief system is founded: the right to self determination.

Why doesn't your Press report the fact that Arafat is a Christian? Because Arafat, as monster-fanatic, is one of the distortions upon which the credibility of American foreign policy depends.

Wailing Dome 3Wailing Dome 4INQUISITOR: So why don't you, yourself, volunteer for martyr's heaven, to better serve the cause of your liberation, and the Will of Allah, of which you so grandiloquently and reverentially speak? What's holding you back?

Activist: Each of us is called to play a role in the liberation of Palestine. My role, although a fairly an important one, cannot be compared to the magnificent and privileged role of the martyr.

INQUISITOR: Sounds to me like you're afraid to die?

Activist: So now you're trying to portray me as a coward, and before that, a monster. When my work is done here, and there is still much work to be done, I will gladly, and with great humility, leave my mortified flesh.

INQUISITOR: But the martyrs you train to take the lives of innocent men, women and children? How does this square with your belief in God, the Koran?

Activist: The belligerent nation of Israel, contrary to the many UN resolutions, is our unlawful occupier and oppressor. Our martyrs are delivering and will continue deliver the same message, which still hasn't been properly assessed: free us as a people, allow us the right to our homeland, as Israel was allowed following the Balfour Declaration, and the lives of innocent men, women and children will be spared. Our people are caught up in a David and Goliath War, but we, the sling-shot people, will persevere, despite Israel's American built F16s. We are not responsible for the deaths of innocent men, women and children. Israel alone is responsible for their deaths.

INQUISITOR: Let's imagine a future state of Palestine, with the full authority of a sovereign nation, where within its borders thrives Hamas, whose stated goal is the destruction of Israel. Why should Israel, by creating a Palestinian state, give Hamas virtual carte blanche?

Activist: When Palestine becomes a sovereign fact, I would wager that what you in the West characterize as suicide bombings will stop. It is a part of the public record that for years Hamas played by internationally accepted rules while big talk produced nothing. To suggest that Hamas will continue to wage war against Israel, once the state of Palestine has been established, is disingenuous argument, and the excuse Israel needs to occupy us, to deny us our dignity as individuals, as a people.

THE END


PS- post me ur comments on the same.
Thursday, June 14, 2007

Week “‘holi’day”


One of those days when serendipity happens.

Today is one such day. The weather took its mellow mood and people ventured down for a smoke and the idle talk. I picked up Kafka after that. His Diaries are so precise, so confident and so whimsical at their own turns. Fascinating, the mind of such a man! Creativity is such a nebulous thing..like this haze that hovers around your head and you try to catch the fragmented thoughts, unusual memories that bring that warmth, and bookends, tapes and music, travels and fellow travelers..(Well, I quite like the vicious circle of trying to chase my thoughts to the end of my head)..and than coming back to square 1, wondering if the entire exercise was futile.

But solitude is nice. I like it. Obscurity has been increasingly so relishing a thought. I do my thing and than I just vanish..haha, quite a vivid imagination, that’s what I got. But just sitting down with meself is such a delicious thought after a long day with civilization and society. Good ol pals, the odd “guitar”, rolling paper and conversations, silences and music. Music..yes there now, music is such a creation..(going back to the stream I was on while writing the first para..). Anyways!

Lost…will write more laters. 13.06.07, 19:51pm

Read this essay called "Does Consciousness exists?" by William James( 1904). i browsed over some 5 pages of a 13 page essay but quite a strong argument he holds up there.



Monday, June 11, 2007

a five am dream!


my home in the hills is lovly. it's the perfect plc for me. i share it
with kazu (it's a 3 bedroom apartment and also part panos guest house
so we have lot of ppl visting also.tho havent stayed there too long as
yet)..now i have the entire plc to meself fo a whole month..there 's a
treasure trove of books, dvds and lots of fresh air and greenery and
obscurity, it's like, whn i return home, i go off the radar..haha!!
a few lines from ginsberg that i liked.that kinda explains the atmosphere at my house
in the kharguli hills...;)

Five A.M. (Allen Ginsberg)

Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
in one hundred two hundred years
nearly Immortal, Sappho's 26 centuries
of cadenced breathing -- beyond time, clocks, empires, bodies, cars,
chariots, rocket ships skyscrapers, Nation empires
brass walls, polished marble, Inca Artwork
of the mind -- but where's it come from?
Inspiration? The muses drawing breath for you? God?
Nah, don't believe it, you'll get entangled in Heaven or Hell --
Guilt power, that makes the heart beat wake all night
flooding mind with space, echoing through future cities, Megalopolis or
Cretan village, Zeus' birth cave Lassithi Plains -- Otsego County
farmhouse, Kansas front porch?
Buddha's a help, promises ordinary mind no nirvana --
coffee, alcohol, cocaine, mushrooms, marijuana, laughing gas?
Nope, too heavy for this lightness lifts the brain into blue sky
at May dawn when birds start singing on East 12th street --
Where does it come from, where does it go forever?

Monday, June 11, 2007

stitchings in the gaps..



i visited my so called blog after almost a year and i realised (what i have known all along) that probally i should get back to scrapping some again. but laziness, excuses of the "frenetic pace of work and events", life, life and the sorts become my handicap whenever i feel like penning down some thoughts. but than why not..considering the amount of time and space i let my mind wander and soar at its whims, i actually should be doing a little justice to keeping track of all those myriad calenders of a day gone by..or an experience!

i have been working for a while now..it's an organisation that works on various issues ranging from environment, public health, conflict (and the influence of conflict on cultures), globalisation (and the connotations in the developmental countries and communities), media pluralism et al. i wont get into the nitty-gritties of what my job involves here though i can say ("with a straight face", as a friend aptly put it) that im liking it here. im back in the green green grass of home...though that's actually debatable coz what is home afterall..my definition of one isnt delimited by geographical boundaries or any material trappings of a house. it's more about the mind here. about being happy deep down perhaps. and after all the rhetoric has flushed down the loo, it's about being truely on your own. guess that must be it.

yes, i do essentially belong to the Northeastern part of India but categorising this verdant expanse of land steeped in tradition, indigenous cultures, people and lived realities is not something i would endeavour to do here. but during the time i am here, exploring my roots and genealogies (haha..dont read me literally please!) i intend to travel a lot and click away, discover, discover and also write down some of my ramblings while am at it.
Saturday, July 22, 2006

resurrection

well, this is kind of a new beginning for me. and like all new beginnings, i am performing the ritual burial of the past. in physical terms, nothing really has changed probably but i am trying to focus my energies into a direction i might be able to work on. here im now, in another metropolis with a new set of friends and definitely experiencing a totally new emotion. i am so busy that i hardly get time to think my thoughts. but i am not really regretting it coz i did rather work and crash on my bed at the end of the day i guess.

it's been a long journey of sorts. reacing this moment in time. n this tag, this new identity as a journalist doesnt really influence me coz i have never been bothered about such considerations. but yes im enjoying this life for the moment. it's a lot of practical work here altho the longdrawn lectures in the morning make me drowsy. our profs are all quite some characters and of course we have our favs.

i have joined TV here.now now it's not a job am doing..just a journo course u kno! and the irony is i hardly watch the idiot box but wanted to go for this coz i m getting into this mode now where my fingers are actually itching to try some camera work tho my knowledge about it is null and void. i want to fuse words and images to bring out life as i see it. idealistic again? maybe. but whoever said idealists die a hard death never lived the life. the emotions and the erotic sensation of feeling something acutely is too much to throw away as a half eaten dinner.

i did rather be me than someone else. and i think as of now im doing just fine. you see, i have just started learning how to manipulate things to suit my will and tho i still think it's quite a dirty job, i dont mind as long as i dont use or end up hurting anyone. after all, didnt someone sing "live and let die" (was it d beatles...m amnesiac these days!!)

anyways, that's my first blog for the day, if u can call it that. i m not bothered.

and like always, carpe diem!!

peace!