Tagged

I generally dont respond to tags but Majaz is going to kill me if I dont, this time around
Anyway, here it is


You have to write

Three things which you pride yourself upon.

Reason
I dont lie for anyone's approval.
Majaz


Three things you hate about yourself.

I love myself.:S

Three things that you can't let go of.

Eventually, you have to. So rationally speaking, that I CAN let go of almost anything.

Three things that you love to eat.

Lamb-chops medium rare.
PorterHouse or Tbone medium rare/medium
Mutton Karahi


Three things you cannot possibly eat in a million years.

Snakes
Dogs
Rats

Three songs you could sing to the rest of the world.

I cant sing

Three movies you would show if you had your way around Film Festivals.

Through a Glass Darkly
Taxi Driver
Kill Bill

The question of negation of time and God’s ruthlessness

1)
The concept of reality, as nonexistent but as a perception is absurdly absurd, but then again it is not possible to quantify reality in measurable units, (even if it was so, those units would be first perceptions).


2)
I’ve believed somewhat, there is no other way of, no different way of putting those questions here; of scribbling down the confusions that have already begun to take shape: as molds of faith. Misfortunes of our kind and paradoxes associated with those have a long history of becoming: we substitute childhood for innocence, childhood which has an incomplete history.
Adam and Eve, cherished in ignorance/innocence imposed as an obligation with-out a childhood, and sinned ( Lets not get into the theory of sin again, just imagine they did) only to come to terms with reason and their non-existent childhood, and for centuries now, we cherish the fragility of our offspring: we carry the burden of void of Their lives. Imagine being thrust to adulthood, naked and in shame, but without a single memory or memento of ever being a child. Or did God create, as he created Adam and Eve, a false history of their being ex nihilo? And if so, such false scars from a non-existent childhood, such memories, wouldn’t it be unfair of god himself to impose such a terrible lie on his own Adam? And if for instant, say such memories did exist, of a time that didn’t, extrapolating the idea over the length of history, past has been a collection of memories only, and future hasn’t arrived yet and NOW is what isn’t after each instant but a memory again. If memories were conjured without the existence of actual time, such memories were flawed in their genesis and legacy of those, our memories of time, who’s to say are real or not. Thus time becomes just a logical fallacy, something that is believed to exist but doesn’t.
All such imaginations, imaginative as those maybe, will remain incongruous, in all effectual descriptions mere perceived misprisions, reflecting one’s own personal interaction with alienation and their supposed understanding of that, for there is no Post-Adam method of understanding Adam or understanding God was never transparent to begin with.

And for the lack of my ability to put it in the words I want to, I need to go back in time to borrow Borges's confusion and ultimately resignition

“Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges."

Love in the times of Cholera, the movie.

Where do I begin?
It was a worthless piece of ridiculous film making.

I have never been a fan of Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
His supposed grand tale of unrequited love is generally hailed as a masterpiece and some four or five years back when I first read it, I found it overwhelmingly disappointing. Frankly, no matter how much the critics loved it, I couldn’t get around the idea of two 70 years old people consummating their love in most graphical of depictions beautiful or even remotely agreeable and how could after fucking virtually everything in sight, you still believe that you are a virgin is somehow the height of love is totally beyond me. People who haven’t read the novel may find me exaggerating, but it’s true that our protagonist keeps a record of women he slept with and the final number was above six hundred, believing that he is still a virgin. Also, the novel’s sappiness couldn’t be tolerated over 400 pages, at least I couldn’t. Hearing a sappy song for 5 minutes is fine but to read through such a heap of lurvvvvvv and the idiotic glory was too much for me.
Marquez’s technique suffers from a common syndrome amongst supposed greats (All the Russians for example): to go on an on. Unlike Joyce, or Nabokov the story telling takes precedence over prose and imagination runs wild, but unfortunately doesn’t go far enough much like a 5 year old running wild but staying in his backyard. The emphasis is not on the sentence, but on the images he is trying to create, and too many words are wasted. Personally I like prose where words, each word matter and each sentence, the sound of sentence has a place in the over all structure of the story. I fell in love with Toni Morrison’s Paradise on her first sentence, and for that matter don’t think I’d ever forget the opening of Satanic Verses or the ending of Ulysses. You take a ‘yes’ out and prose is not the same, unlike Marquez, where you can easily skip a chapter where “Florentino Ariza” manages to fuck twenty women, without missing a thing.

On personal scale, the novel was 3 out of 10 in my ratings.

So, when I started with the movie, my expectations were already low. But still the movie was such a colossal fuck, that I was surprised. Yeah, I don’t like the story, but at least the film-making could be better. I still have no idea why the director decided to chose two different actors for playing the same character in their 20s and 30s, who have no resemblance whatsoever and even their accents are different? I can’t get around the fact that while at 70, our heroine’s whole body is old, but her legs and hands look so fresh (The makeup was worse than any B movie). The movie jumps from one scene to another, totally incoherently, and for all the vices that I found in the prose, at least it was coherent.

People with glorified version of love may like the movie, but for me, if love is what it is as portrayed in the film, love itself is cholera, because certainly it does make you nauseous.

Over-all, it was a must-stay-away-from movie. I can’t bring myself to give it a single point on a scale of 0-10 and a total waste of time and money.

Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes

“ Your son Mrs. Bathurst was a cold-hearted killer and if there’s a hell, he’s going there to be poked up the arse with sharp fiery sticks forever and ever, Amen”
(DCI-Gene Hunt in Life on Mars)



I am not usually a fan of Television, with exception of bastard characters such as House
And now I have a new addition on my list—DI Gene Hunt.

I was absolutely blown away with the serial. Show Series Arabia has done its best to confuse me though, as its running both “Life on Mars” and its spin off “Ashes to Ashes “back to back, so it becomes difficult to keep the chronology straight.

But anyway, though genre (a collage of time travel and police procedural) is nothing new, the approach is fresh and the acting is superb, both by our protagonist Sam Tyler and DI Gene Hunt.
Its spin off, Ashes to Ashes, is not too bad either. Sam Tyler is replaced by a female character Alex Drake, and the year is 1981, not 1973.
I am trying to avoid details for it may spoil the fun of few readers of this blog. But Life on Mars is a must see… Especially before its American version hits the screens, which no matter how good, could never match the original series. And sad thing is, if American version becomes popular, people would never know the original one.

So get Life on Mars and watch it through and if you are still asking for more Gene, get “Ashes to Ashes” as well…

O btw, did I mention music?



Update:


NO NO NO
after seeing this
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GBHvkoDnOE
I feel sick
The American versions will only be dumbed up version of the original.
It will be a disgrace, a shame ...
FOr the love of god, why would they remake it anyway:@

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”

Remember the dreams, old dreams, of crimson skies and velvet wavelets before I become death. No, I won’t bother with the paradox of the end or the beginning, or the edacity in the infinitude of repetitions, No it’s not theorizing, it’s only a remembrance of sky that once was crimson.
Before the realization or the question of being hits, where and when all is plausible and the sky is crimson.
In another life, in another world, I could’ve raged against the dying of the light.
Could’ve.

Imagining, travelling the time and space, watching the galaxies unfold and to stare in God's eyes.
The night is pleasantly cold, it rained today, and too bad I know it’s not the tears of angels.

For years now , I've admired the whole concept of commedia dell'arte.
And seeing the streched fake smile of Hillary Clinton, its like a character has come to life from there:) Only, its hard to establish, she is more ugly, more ridiculous or more scary.

I cant wait for democratic race to be over, not that I care for america, but people, I do wacth TV and I dont need to see that frightening clown every time I switch to CNN.

Verbalizing a stream of consciousness

What ?

Various muted whispers, stone causing concentric circles over the surface of a stagnant lake, flickering lamp and varying gradations of light and shadow, what meaning, what insinuations, what innuendoes, when standing right in front of you, I am conveniently invisible?

In what constellations did tiny particles of hope align, within the miasma of isolation?
In what lines did narration and fantasy coincide?

How?
To hope, to cling onto—how, by what technique, by what principle, in infinitude of incertitude, a justification materializes?

By various revisited mazes patterns of a unnavigable labyrinth emerge my very own personal labyrinth where each destination or the temporary illusion of it screameth “whither”, to where, to which corner, and each scream trapped in the high walls (Oh yes your highness, walls higher than the moon) resonates and ultimately synchronizes itself with all others in my garden of timeless echoes.

A justification?
Of limitation of language, the inconsistent structure (why not no onomatopoeic word for orgasm?), the constant struggle in search of a meaning, of words, of sentences, of whispers and of our lives (if that has a meaning), somnolent prayers, incipient resignation, imaginary osculation, still less action more contemplation, incapacity at terroritoriztion (Yes you can cut your heart in two, all you need is time), the face of her father, the distance in her eyes.

Silent nights… A mocha latte, extreme rare steak (what? Suddenly an aversion to tasting blood), concomitant euphoria with hints of nausea or vice versa (One or the other would kick in first, but my dear, wait for the other). Isn’t it a great time discussing vampire stories?

Reminiscence?

The balancing act, the good the bad and the ugly, a partial amnesia doesn’t bite either, and time… How time will obliterate these memories, equally but differently in protagonist and the author?

But to hell with that all.
She is tired, she needs to sleep.

Well, Pakistani politics has always been stupid but after reading this http://www.app.com.pk/en_/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=35290&Itemid=2
cant help laughing.
There is a limit to cheap drama and total idiocity, but MQM bhai loog seem to have gotten past that long ago:D
I ofcourse dont like anyone in politics, but I dont hate anyone as much as I hate this guy.
Altaf Hussain is a fucking cartoon.

She’ll become His Echo.

In a darkly dreaming reality, she’d place him, her heart rending song of silence and regret. See the monotones in this over-played, dully acted opera, where the range of rage of beautiful but gutless prima donna causes if anything a soporific ennui.

She wants to remain a three thousand and one piece puzzle that never got assembled, never got figured out, for the fragmentation colours her existence and completion incompletes her.

All women are mothers in one way or the other, but those who choose to adopt 25 year old babies instead of pushing someone out their vagina command commemoration. The degree of denial, and the heights to which you can lower your vanity to may not be something that thrills me, but on some fucked up meter that measures these fucked up things, that is some fucking achievement.

Some sentences love repetitions, some stories need to be re-told.

And the perception of these mechanical permutations, these told and retold old fables, escapes from the label of a cliché . After a while, we pantomime interpretations, and with elusive new awakenings ensure the survival of our bloody becoming in the cesspit of love and all things great—A hilarious subterfuge, but still what a shining dust of undead clichés.

On a lighter note, amidst all the cigarette burns, and a broken nose, what is that the different one ever did different? Was asked about reason, denied the significance. Closed her eyes, fell in love. Lived in between and at a distance. And how and why would it ever matter to ME: a motherless child? It shouldn’t. And has I ever deluded myself as a messiah?... Nah, never was interested in being the savior. It may be the patterns I hate, maybe, but that shouldn’t be about me. After all, when writing about denial, I can choose denial and not all writing should be mirrored in self and then written again.

The infinity of vanity, and disgrace, means an insurmountable calculation of relative parameters to decide what constitutes which. And then existing in between, neither here nor there but itinerant, an amorous whisper between triads of slander, a gentle kiss between angered fists, a few words that imitate care, when venom tastes sweet, words, words, words without their meaning, hope, hope, hope without any. Comfort? None but that comforts us. Visions? Of guardian angels or the God himself? No. Swimming in the intensity on the rhythm of 'haramzadi' . Forgotten promises of care- Such diverse collections of a thousand wounds and minute memories of a penis and making love, when she felt so revered as mother of her lover followed by another go at strangulation, and somehow something in between made it worth it?

She was torn apart. And love will tear her apart again.

For all the pain she has suffered, she may love him more. Organs, the fragile and flawless arms and legs that bear the bruises may make her value him more, for what good has been her life, hadn’t for the pain? What good has been the story, if lovers lived happily after? At least he didnt throw her around and kicked her on the belly ? Oh wait he did? Well they always do. The cliche needs to be accurate after all. 

For immortality or the illusion of it, she needs to be torn apart, to be remembered, to be painted and to be mused about. 
So
He’ll be her Narcissus, and she’ll become his Echo.

Of Authenticity of this Connection

The way desire, expectations and preconceptions influence our thematic interpretation of relations, plays havoc with any possibility of an essential connection. The imaginative effect of passing time on memories is something that troubled and fascinated me since long and in my convoluted narratives I sought immunity from it; to what extent in that seemingly insignificant effort, had I been successful, nothing can judge that, because memory can’t be videoed today and re-watched tomorrow. But I never wrote about the inherent distortion in memory to begin with. Time only adds deception to what already is maligned version of events and relations.

Living in a postmodern world with the apparent enormity of available information, results in a confused juxtaposition of notions, about every relation we ever have, about every connection we ever build.
And what fabrications these are, all lovers, all relations, we build to fit our perfect definitions for them. We conceive them to suit ourselves, our complexes, our longings and our hunger. We rob them of their existence, and re-mould those all, over years from rough diagrams to our completed masterpieces and fit them in closets, on our coffee tables, on our walls and in our beds, so that we may look from afar and see what we want to see.
This momentary accomplishment brings about a joy and sense of belonging, which inherently remains as ephemeral as the artifacts we create, and when slowly and silently, the faces we created start to erode our conquests start to crumble into disappointments. Then we start the blame game, because at some level of subconscious, we knew that this house of cards was meant to fall apart. We pick up the pieces, sometimes worship those- the idols of our imaginations and cry for them, at other times we burn them up just to feel un-betrayed.

I’ve seldom felt betrayed in such a way, not because I didn’t create my own idols, but somehow I ended up feeling that I betrayed them. I longed for and then conceded the possibility of a connection that is not defined by the notions of ‘what and how it should be’. I wanted a connection in which I am not shamed by nakedness, my own and of whoever was before me. It’d seem almost delusional, but every passing day it feels that I have that now. Funny that a stupid urge arisen from query of a colleague about never doing a socially questionable act, leads me to the conclusion. I may be delusional again, but this time it at least seems real.
Have we done it? Instead of creating a mold to substitute for a connection, have we actually built a connection? The time seems to favour that, as over the years the banalities kept fading away, and we kept evolving to our basic naked selves and connection seems to be getting stronger.
I am happy.


P.S
It almost seems unlike me to write in descriptive narratives instead of theorizing OUR bits. But then again, a lot has changed in 3 years, hasn’t it ? :)

Did he kiss her with kisses of his mouth ? :)

A stupid question just popped up my head and now I can't sleep.

Did Solomon marry Sheba?
Widely held Islamic belief is that he did, but Quran doesn't have an exact reference.
And ofcourse, my favourite part of Bible, The Song of Solomon, has various references about the supposed love between them.
Anyone who happens to read this blog, please have your say and I am interested in the account of all three religions, i.e Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Having said that, I'll try to sleep again now :(

Something I am working on, still Incomplete

He…
He who set about to write a treatise on sadness, slowly and unseeingly has lurked beneath the darkness of his incapacity to come up with a perfect word for his inability to be sad.
The repertoire of limitlessness gives birth to a classless distaste, a sheer ennui for all minutiae of reality and a million reflections of it. One or any piece of such rotten existence sums up thoughtless vagaries of arrogance, and vanity fears, and succumbs to meaninglessness of faith or the absence of it.

Follow we must because the flowing paths of pilgrims make an eternal outcast of me, an upstream escape be cut short by the ensuing stampede that crushes all outcasts and pilgrims alike and I have yet only lived voices. I am yet described by paradoxes and questions: I am not yet my description.

A curious innocent child with shining eyes, who used to sit in the deep spatial blankness in moonlit verandahs at night, to wonder, to explicate the infinite patterns in stars has long been disfigured by images blight.
On the unsure face of his simulacrum lies resting a bestiality and ravenous desire to scavenge on dolor, to understand for once what it would mean to be truly sad.

Away! Orphan child o mine! Away! I stultify with numbness, you.

Ah! The visions of paradise and fear of hell!

We thought then, thence and thereafter, Satan shall lead us not astral through greed and desire. I know puritans would scoff at me, for losing the sense of time, of eternity of heaven and hell. They would laugh, a convulsion their laughter is, the laughter of theists, which sends me shivers down me spine. But I keep losing it. It is barely important. When we move in a circle with the speed of the sense of history, we see how imaginative and charming but deceptive and elusive idea eternity is. But Oh! These are regrets speaking. Regrets, these are beautiful egrets that fly w towards the bland translucent moon instead of the splash dash of sunset at sunset. Always felt there was something about our voices, whispers that is independent of us: but then again, what inverted times these are. Seems I’ve been going in circles.

A tale of sacrifice—a heap of crap

I’ve always had an idiosyncratic sense of humour: more often mourning or exuding sadness of other people bring about fits of laughter in me. Interestingly, though I attribute such appeal to mockery and sarcasm to my own indefatigable hubris, I find narcissism and delusions of grandeur (mostly in sadness and in pain) of other people extremely comical.

Reading a tale of shattered love is always fun ( a device which according to my analysis remains by far the most popular modus operandi in blogging world, winning the race with closeted atheists and homosexuals), but recently I’ve read a piece which made me laugh even after days of reading—a classic example of rationality raped.

Our protagonist is heart-broken of course. And yes he has been mourning the lost love for ages. Of course, what is a life without a sense of loss and heartache, even if that’s an imagined one? But now in his search for grandeur, his delusions have taken a new turn. Not only he has a broken heart, an agonizing pathetic history of whining, he has assumed a new role--the most forgiving dumped lover with imagined omnipotence over the life of his unrequited love, as according to him in his fit of love or hatred, he can destroy all she has: D Now it’s actually the lowest level of stupidity, though masquerading as maturity in an impressive narrative, that I’ve come across in a while.

I don’t understand how come a act of utter desperation, not much different from a 5 year old girl who breaks her favourite doll to keep it to herself, rather than to give it to her 4 year old sister, be deemed glorious by the author, much less by a reader? And this utter animalistic desperation and selfishness is called either love or hatred, and then followed by a gigantic leap in megalomania by an assertion that not doing so is a sacrifice in love :D

Third rate affairs pretty much end in the same way, the jealous former lover exposing the old love letters, again an act which is idiotic as well as pathetic, how come not being a cry-baby for once translates into sacrifice in the name of ‘love’ is beyond me. The funny part is that the author actually is so deluded that he believes in his own crap and has added one memorabilia in his trophy closet. With Pain, Sadness, Lost love, there now rests Sacrifice, a collection of themes for his epic life, which to me appears only a pile of delusion that smells funny.
Can’t help laughing.

P.S
It’s been a conscious effort on my part to conceal the identity of said author, but in case anyone finds out (including that author), this post wasn’t meant to be a disgrace. Just that, it was becoming too hard to laugh silently. I do admire his narrative, it is just his delusions and subject that I find funny.