Pakkhiwas

It seems abhorrent, so profane, the attempt at articulation of pulse but then again, there is no alternative to communication now, is it? As the sea and the sea of sand engulf the space I nervously saunter on, I fidget to figure out the unease that palls my heart—the trembleintheeye .
My friend, my bane, with a towering frame, we are together for better or for worse, for now.
Within the veins that run gasoline, do you not see the the beatifiction of a million maggots and the illoveries they chew and threw?
I wonder about this face of yours, this taste of yours for the knife.
On thurstday night, the parasitynight you paint it bright with flashyflash, in a gluttering dash.
You look so proud so incessantly cared only to watsch it all scared lest I hear the deafeatning howl—horrolific ululation from a plundered ghoul.

As I pack my bags and we bid adieus, I question the relationship we have (Or rather you have with so many of us Pakkhiwases). I am not oblivious to the irony: I feed the monster I deride.

If I can't fly a kite when I want to because my government can pass a law to limit that, doesn't it diminish my liberty ?
Where does it stop ? Is executive/judicial over-reach a concept too alien to us or we don't see that if we let government legislate bits of our personal lives under pressure from religious right, we will loose even the sense of liberty ?
It shouldn't be a liberal cause, it should be everyone's.

Veena Malik, you go girl

She just kicked that stupid Mullah's ass.

Oh my God! It was pure ecstasy to watch her rip that ass apart.

We anonymous Fucktards & Salman Taseer

When religious birds threw their stones ripping the flesh, baring the bones
You stood tall, you bore our cross and the crowd waved and laughed

What celebration, what joyous glee; another blasphemy; another blood spree
and round and round the fervor goes; heaven's winds, seventy two hoors

And we stand aside, the silent and tamed ; impotent bastards spineless and shamed
We bicker and moan and raise a ruckus; as long as no-one names our names

(whatever happened to principle, us fucks)


And hence Salam Taseer died; Twenty seven bullets lodged in his body. Yeah, I see the irony of reversing the number to seventy two, the same number of virgins that asshole dreamt of before pulling the trigger.
And what do we secular intellectuals do? We fucking moan anonymously.



Yes, the sky is not red today, nor the black engulfs the air
A little blood on an Islamabad street, its not Armageddon, they say

These people with their buckets of God
These people, the idiots, we've stayed away …

We still rather sit on this cozy sofa, with our fancy books
Animated rage, vanilla cappuccino, blogs we type away

Deep in shit, in this joke of our yoke
Lets light a candle for this black day

For what else can cowards like us do?

Marriage, Wall Clocks and Molvi Sahab

Its been a month since we got married.
And cliches apart, I hadn't had that much laughter in any month in my life time.
To summarize the laughter, I have but two words... Wall clocks and molvi sahab...
Its been fun and it will continue to be...

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.