Dangerous Liaisons and John Malkovich

Its been a while since Daniel Day Lewis' masterful portrayal of Bill the Butcher (The finest acting I've even seen) and I didn't expect to be blown away again by an acting performance.
But I was and wow, what a delightful experience that was. John Malkovich in 'Dangerous Liaisons ' is awesome. That is to say, a new entry in my top 10 list after quite some time. And irony is, like most of the others in that list, he didn't get an oscar for that. Hell he wasn't even nominated.
Anyway for all cinemaphiles, the movie should be a treat to watch.

J: I dont understand why our music doesn't sound as good as the westerns
B: What do you mean?
J: Well there are so many rock bands right? All know how to play guitar. Sometimes they talk about the same themes. But something is missing. Passion or ...hmmm ... say a sense of truth. Don't yo have a theory about that ?
B: I do. Rich kids can't rock.
J: mmmmmmmmmmmmm. Right. Assholes.

I am changing my blogging nick-name.

I've grown bored of permutations, and maybe He doesn't have that ONE name.
Otherwise cabalists would've found it. Its been centuries.

Pantomime

Sound of a distant trumpet exudes a soporific sensation. Let the fuck begin.
At overture, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of my discomfort burgeon.
What is more frightening—the lurking vestige of incredulity in theists or residue of faith in atheists? Or maybe faith and denial are crafts that need time for perfection.
And Time is never enough Rabbi.
You remember when I first entered Gevurah on the wings of desires and you abacinated me –the moment, the anagnorisis? For in darkness shall I find that light is a recursive illusion, only the absence of dark. And what doors you put me through, the Scourge of darkness and unbearable absurdity of existence. And there was this world dissected before me confessing its being as inconsistent chaos of haphazard instances, connected to each other by mere coincidences. And history, the wonderful piece of fiction, cried over its emptiness. Theology, a subterfuge bedizened by rhythmic rhetoric and glorious fables, shed off its clothes and stood in its grotesque nakedness.
You know Rabbi, the darkness of the blind is a misty haze, coloured in innumerable shades, changing every instance with the random permutations of seven colours mixing in infinite proportions.
But then arrived my first peripeteia—those insomniac nights spent with the recurring apparitions of demons and fires of hell, when you held my hands and reassured the rational me. But I couldn’t be solaced Rabbi, until you disappeared and I hymnhummed some prayers whispered in my ear a long time ago.
I don’t remember when I lost your hand and how long I wandered alone until HE came along.
‘And then there was light.’
And in ‘our’ two act play, I bathed in my second awakening.
Darkness became my avowed nemesis. And yes there was an ephemeral peace, eyeing harmony in dissonance and a pattern in chaos. Those strolls in the garden of hesed when love shined in on me and white light illuminated my naïve soul. He disappeared too Rabbi, as you did, just when my eyes were becoming his eyes.
I finally realize it Rabbi, the con-sequence of flawed longing.
In my exacerbation, I am tirelessly fluctuating between ‘what’ and ‘what if; for a perfect faith; for a perfect denouncement. To describe my plight, there is only fright, again, and this time, I have no daedalian wings.
Its grand finale, Rabbi, it is the catastrophe, because I know now. In the sterile soil of my longing, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of order/disorder burgeon.
Now I know Rabbi, Gevurah runs in my veins.
Now I know Rabbi, I am your amaranthine protagonist, destined to be un-destined.
Now I know Rabbi, He was you.
What would you write now, but a repetition of these two acts?
Hell… lay it all to rest.

Derrida On L'mour

Since I find myself incapable of writing anything lately, I am thinking of returning to the basics-to do what I was good at. Quoting people, questioning everything and talking about books and movies. That is to say, I am thinking of starting a movie/book review blog. An ode to the pieces that i adored over the years.

Well, for now, I have seen Derrida talking for the first time. Ifinally got my hands on Derrida The Movie, and yes it only fuels my fascination with the grey haired dead jew.
Here is what he says when asked about l'mour. (Reminds me of my long diatribe I had once. Someone somewhere must remember that :) )


Love is a question of who and what. Is love the love of someone or the love of some thing?

Supposing I loved someone; Do I love someone for the absolute singularity of who they are? i.e. I love you because you are you. Or do I love your qualities, your beauty, your intelligence?

Does one love someone, or does one love something about someone? The difference between the who and the what at the heart of love, seperates the heart. It is often said that love is the movement of the heart. Does my heart move because I love someone who is an absolute singularity, or because I love the way that someone is?

Often love begins with a type of seduction. One is attracted because the other is like this or like that. Inversely, love is disappointed and dies when one comes to realise the other person doesn't merit our love. The other person isn't like this or that. So at the death of love, it appears that one stops loving another not because of who they are but because they are such and such .

That is to say, the history of love, the heart of love, is divided between the who and the what. The question of Being, to return to philosophy- because the first question of philosophy is: what is it 'to Be'? What is 'Being'? The question of 'Being' is itself always already divided between who and what. Is 'Being' someone or some thing? I speak of it abstractly, but I think that whoever starts to love, is in love, or stops loving, is caught between this division of the who and the what. One wants to be true to someone - singularly, irreplaceably - and one perceives that this someone isn't x or y. They didn't have the qualities, properties, the images, that I thought I'd loved. So fidelity is threatened by the difference between the who and the what.

Tagged

Tagged by 0rdered-chaos a.k.a Fairy Godmother.



Today...

Height: 6'2''
Color: brown with a fairish bias :D
Piercing: None
Tattoos: None But someday maybe
Right Now
Time: 0327 hours.
Mood: Bored
Taste: closeup
Weather: Well in transition. A hint of cool breeze in the moonlit night. The night has matured and its beautiful. Just that my skin is not evaporating
Bad habit: None
Current crush: A younger Madeline Stove
Biggest regret: There never was glory
Perfume(s): Jean Paul Gaultier, Eternity
Thing I want to do: At the moment? Hmmm… apart from sex eat something.
Favourite TV show: Goodness Gracious Me ( Yes its not on anymore)
Book: Currently Borges. Again.
Non alcoholic drink: Espresso
Milk drink: Espresso with a milkdrop :D
Brand: none
Color: Currently black
Emblem: none

Designer: None
Chocolate: None

Have I Ever...


Broken the law: Yes
Misused credit card: No
Fell asleep in the shower/bath: Of course I did. What else can you do on winter morns?
Had children: I hope not :D
Been in love: Yes. AM IN LOVE
Been hurt: Oh yes. Broke my nose thrice :P
Random
Have a job: Yes
My CD player has what in it right now: Media Player is playing Moonlight Sonata
If I were a crayon, the color: Someone else shall have a say
What makes me happy: Fantasizing about a lot of sex lately. That’s a typical Ramadan Syndrome btw.

When/What...

Was the LastI got a real letter: Lately …
Got an email: 3 hours ago. Junk
Thing I purchased: today. A pack of smokes
TV program I watched: Man Utd Vs Liverpool . Yes a soccer match.
Hugged: Aali…
Place I was: my room
Song heard: Before Sonata ….Beethoven’s 9th and show must go on (Queen)
Phone call: today / Appa
Was depressed: don’t remember. Must’ve been one such time waisey.

What Comes to Mind When I Hear

Car: An alto I am saving to lease right after EID
Murder: Hannibal Lecter
Cape: Martin Scorsese
Cell: Nokia 1100
Fun: Sex
Shoe: Her naked feet
Crush: Someone who had a crush that lasted too long: Omer
Music: Crying/Sex
Love: Apart from Sex ? Yea there is she....sigh
Chalk: 6th grade politics.

Alright...who do I tag? Don’t know :S

Garbage--The Trick is to keep breathing (Lyrics)

Shes not the kind of girl
Who likes to tell the world
About the way she feels about herself
She takes a little time
In making up her mind
She doesn’t want to fight against the tide

Lately
I’m not the only one
I say
Never trust anyone

Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around

Can’t bear to face the truth
So sick he cannot move
And when it hurts he takes it out on you

Lately
I’m not the only one
I say
Never trust anyone

Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around

The trick is to keep breathing
The trick is to keep breathing

She knows the human heart
And how to read the stars
Now everything’s about to fall apart

I won’t be the one whos going to let you down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around ?

I won’t be the one whos going to let you down
Maybe youll get what you want this time around ?

The trick is to keep breathing

Time changes.
Maybe you are right, people change too.
Certainly you are right, I have changed. You knew me, you do not know me.
I remember the delicious acquaintance that instigated out of a heated debate, when you stepped in as the peacemaker, and the yummy camaraderie we developed over conversazione about theory and reality and sea and to keep breathing. We debated God then, we bitched about free will and Spinoza and death and rock and roll and yes… your poetry.
Those gods that didn’t stand a chance and migraine attacks at 5 in the morning. I actually remember your nervousness about speaking in public when I couldn’t help laughing at your nasal accent.
Was there anything we didn’t bitch about? It’s hard to remember things you donot do. Aint it?
We shared what… Dead mothers, our tumultuous pasts shrouded in the mist of hearsay and fright, the limbos of our algophilia from the past that we so feared, some shattered pieces of body and soul that we gathered over the years. (Yes I remember you scarred forehead you incorrigible bitch) and a common addiction to sadness. From you nasal behanchoods and my textual batterings we established a connection, an unsaid vow to try to hurt ourselves in hurting each other. Didn’t us. But in all time I never hated you. I could never love you the way I loved her. And how could I? Could you grab love in your hand and shake it yourway? But I never hated you. I didn’t hate you when you hated me, I didn’t hate you when you ran away. Yeah and I was hurt too because you were. For not being able to give one thing that you wanted.
But now I hate you.
Not because you are on a spree of fucking every asshole that you can; not because you cant ask some miserable little piece of shit to mind her own goddamn business; not because you let ‘people’ between us and judge us. I don’t hate you because you can be a massive whore.
I hate you now because you are too fucking ugly. Gosh you are too fucking ugly now.

(These are Nameseeks):

Name us, Oh please Name us.
Categorize our bit too; devise a no-man-culture. For periods of 666 years and all their iterations, Our Loneliness is desperately lonely without our identity. Haunting recollections of roasted flesh, and a trace back through the endless connections of mementos, we saw in the future a past that was, perhaps, actually the past: the name of my name on my lips. As if we were our mothers, who disappeared. In these countless years of rumination, we hadn't had our shares of prophecies... Such is the curse of our disposition: 'Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?’
Thus spake nameseek: Cry! Cry, let’s hear our tears. Each of us is the sad formation of every other. We are also our hip-hop bibliographies. We are the commas in your scriptures, the last imperfect residue of Hexaemeron, and the fallen leaves of Cabbala. We befuddle ourselves by looking in the mirror, looking at ourselves through mirrors in awe; all reflection belongs to us, but none is us.
So name us, please name us.

(These are Namesakes):

We know our names, our last names that resemble others’. But we were born blind, ruptured spine and hunchbacked. Still raw, still flawed, still needing the bearer of our last name—Ceteris paribus, at the receiving end of god’s ire, the god of lost pieces and shared memories. We see the Niles of fate upon our hands that vanish and reappear with the advent of each hour, making us someone else. Someone, with our last name.
What passeth here in this dim-lit stage (This Sanctuary we call The Empire of Mirrors) as infinitude of fiction is our pantophobia? Harlequins and Scaramouch manacled together for only one act, that one act that repeats itself to the degree where rapetition loses its meaning. Each face is a simulacrum of another, each simulacrum imitating its father and so on till the very beginning. We all are Adams. Frightened and a-mazed, and there is no Eve—only sons, fathers, shared memories and lost pieces.
And what screameth here is the echo of each previous act, and acts still to some, our vestiges spread over the fabric of eternity.
At times we yearn for the memory of faded features on our faces. And what a gut-wrenching yearning that is! These times we yearn for the yearning to last. How imperative it is for yearning to last. For with its demise, we cease to exist and become only reflections for those, who bear our name.

The narrative about those 3000 miles of revulsion and impervious veil of darkness, the lack of light, and 72 hours of disgust and dirt about those shinning floors can be summarized in simple anamnesis of togetherness because you weren’t there. And the nights when smoke clouded the vision and I gasped for breath and a sight of the stars, I placed you there in midst of 1001 galaxies—cadre of my world, all those supernovae were envious of your glamour—and let your light shine in on me. In memories we approach the volatile definitions of embrace, of touch and magic.


Or another time, as melody in the air ("some dance to remember, some dance to forget"), spreading and stretching its boundaries like a multeity on the junction between the sun and the desert, you were there standing still in the centre and I danced around you in circles. And then you'd slither your way in my dream, tread upon the labyrinths of my mind with a certain certainty; and mock my vulnerability with a faked naiveté, ‘where’s the linear labyrinth you promised me?’


Or in the night, without the benefit of moonlight, the seething screams of Bach and Satie's gymnopedies, (I rub my naked feet on the floor) memories, melancholies and longings, smoke and perfumes, (I wipe the sweat trickling down my forehead, pay heed to the shouting children three floors below), a cacophony of all voices, all vices, juxtaposed over a fabric of familiar phrases, phases and recursive mazes.


And how does it feel at the hour of waking, left stranded, not far off from sleep, between space and time, with the fragrance of moist soil freshly kissed by summer rain and soporific cool winds, sweet muscle pains and heavy eyes, the hour when you stretch your arms in most real of all illusions only to find that you are alone.
Mundanities of the day and angst in the night when some illusions wither.
And I am left as a mere story teller, a persistent supple echo in my own mind, like the surreal flexible watches in Dali’s dreams, forming colours that suit, forming, with my own memories, graves and shrines.


I remember vividly, one of the eves spent in hell and a beautiful maiden on the cross. Her flesh was ripped by the pebbles thrown by religious birds, and her blood burnt the land it was spilling onto. I went up to her, touched her pale skin which melted and made a hole she whispered 'such are sins of flesh'. 'She wanted Him all for herself.' They told me, they told me that she wanted to love in flesh. 'What’s good for humans, aint good for the God'... That night I made her grave, the first of many without gravestone or iconic memorials. Except for the screams. But those preferred to stay stagnant and hover above—some mark shall be left for those who don't fear His wrath.


These pieces of wordsjust fill in the emptiness of these lines, waiting for a meaning, a consubstantiality, an identification. What means what, if anything, and why, and why not something else. Prior to the interpretation of a text and the answers it unfolds, there are the questions that anticipate answers. And writing becomes a unique heuristic voyage for the author ITself, as well as the varying readers. A random evolution of a judgment out of disparate and embryonic circumstances, semiotics and symbols and what they mean to me in multiple perspectives (particle, wave and field) , and formulation of a situational truth in my mind that I try to duplicate in the minds of a reader, in whatever structures I can come up with for an effective communication. But still my syllogism takes the benefits of an 'if', a root that maynot have actual existence and I revolve in circular mazes, fabricating a charted land of fabulous fables, under the illusion of that I may have conveyed something.


And for you kid, togetherness is a different structure, built on a stairway of connections. Each connection, like a single stair, ends for another for togetherness to be together. Such is the form of togetherness. And no connection can be renewed, every attempt at its revival renders it somewhat weaker, a multitude of cracks appear within the structure causing a collapse, a breaking apart. Remember? The pieces fit, but you watch them tumbled down. And if you over-emphasize a certain regime of signs as sensitivity or naiveté, like speech, you may escape togetherness for a different route altogether. Thus it is for want-of-being-together to build new connections before older expire.


And heart has its mysterious ways. The impenetrable heart that never thawed had yet to discover its own vicissitudes.A moment When all the rues and quest of rebellion were vanquished for a happiness that trickled down on my face, in gratitude of a miracle just born (such fragile beauty wrapped in clothing, smiling and breathing at intervals-intervals with a miniscule hiatus between them- hiatus which could stop my heart) and euphoria of a collage of emotions, of all forms of happiness and some forms of love.


In one of the borgesian labyrinths, I learned something: nothing in the world is devoid of tiny seeds of hell. That's why memory is volatile dear, anything and everything is capable of driving us insane if we are unable to forget it. Envisage a possibility of persistence of memory-- memories that we made together, at all times, wouldn't it be enough to drive us mad. This lack of persistence in minds and actions, these moderations and balance instruments (I wanto cry, and I wanto laugh. I wanto be touched and I wanto be left alone. I wanto be you, and I wanto be me) keep us from boiling in infernos of excess, whether it is a cheesecake or ravenous sex.
In this assemblage of forking times, one of the times, this favourable time that fate has granted us with to be particular, you exist and so do I, bounded to each other through a series of connections, defining the verisimilitude of each other; In another I'd write the same lines, but I'd be a ghost, an illusion. But in all of time’s innumerable permutations, in which I exist and so do you, I am grateful to you for existing.


In ephemeral dreams I dream of immortality and wake up trembling in fear. What good is immortality, where every act is an echo of others that preceded it in the past that never had a beginning, or the presage of others that in future will repeat it to a vertiginous degree until forever. Everything is, as if it is lost in a maze of indefatigable mirrors, nothing is preciously precarious. I cherish your face, your eyes that glow to see me, your inviting smile and you because one day it’ll all dissolve like it never existed.


In the cesspit of wastes from emotional deluge, I have lost many pieces of me and so have you, the pieces which we won’t ever find again. And this loss makes us precious, to each other, and to ourselves. Period.

Of Vengeance and Patience and Being a man

Walking along those labyrinthine alleys my friend, we never had a true communication. And how could we, when that was supposed to be a black day? And you had to be back; you had so much still to do…
I couldn’t say much when you had buried your head between your knees in that reverent silence which tried so desperately to make you believe in the jabbering of that swollen shithole. You were trying to tame that vicissitude that needed no moon to rise, and I watched you wrestle with yourself and that tide.
And then there were your eyes that looked at me in awe.
I tried to read you through them; I tried to read me through you.
That gloomy residue of vengefulness saddened me. What vengeance, against whom and how? When caught in the crossfire of gods, the incidentals and coincidentals have no option but to bleed to death, or heal being indebted to the very sword that slashed them in two, or lit up a secret flame of vengeance in their hearts and wait for it to fade away. I wanted to see that little flame extinguish right then, in front of me, before in its dismay of unrequited revenge it blackens you heart. Ever noticed the relation of captive and his captor? The captive, no matter how vain he is, still owes his breaths to his captor.
And then I see in those eyes a fear of your capacity of endurance.
You’ll endure it.
I’ve seen men enduring it soaked in tears and enveloped in screams. I have endured it cocooned in silence. And that’s all I Know, One way or the other, everyone endures, and patience is just bullshit word that is coined because people needed something to say at funerals. It’s not an embrace of the fate dear, it’s supposed to be welcoming your sorrows with jubilation, and with that madness you can’t be a son, and you can’t be a man.

We’ll meet again six months and we would laugh our hearts out. By then endurance will become a habit to you, and patience will never arrive.Till then I need to say goodbye…
I hope you understand why I dread at even the possibility of looking at shadows from the past.

In sultry mornings, when ghosts of the nights’ dreams recapitulate, I mourn the departure of the little waif lost in the wasteland of my heart.
I can still visualize him, cold and naked, shivering in the dark, and crying.
Better! He didn’t fit in. All rues aside, he didn’t fit in.
Sometimes we can come undone with whatever we did, sometimes we can’t. What say you love, which one of those times is it?
And when of questions, I ask too much? For me, yes. But I ask so. To cogitate of being with you, around you, or even in the imagination of your presence, Love.
And moments, made heavy with breaths, dissolved in thin air. I relive them to live. And how I live them, these images of your glistening skin, brushing against mine, and a mélange of desires? I tremble already, as I trembled, the beauty, love, passion. A collage of these memories when, for once, for once lunacy ruled over the rationale, have glued themselves to the fragments of my being. Do you know, Love, they obliterate mirrors, nullify the dissonance between me and my personage and let me be me, resurrected and naked in the warmth of your lap this time. And how could I mar them with a self-righteous frenzy—these memories that send tremors down my spirit in an orgasmic ecstasy? What an episode of rebirth unbeknownst to the flesh.
Talk to me, my inabilities, murmur in my ear; what to say, what to write, to make her hear, to make her understand? How to locate coherence, lucidity in this paroxysm of my restlessness, to establish the connection, a communication?
These words that I form mock my naiveté and I war with these, like that little child who is alone in the wilderness, cold and naked, and crying.