no, never even heard that rod stewart. just didn’t know he could write at all.
Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
Well the night’s busting open these two lanes will take us anywhere
-Springsteen (Thunder Road)
At 2 am, the telephone line buzzes. Conversations of you. A few silent voices, she talks as if with complete abandon.
Girl on msn.
actually, i just started this to quote the maggie line.
(ironic because it’s almost 3 am. must be then.)
http://www.pbase.com/hinius/streetphotography
one of those random mornings when i revisit the streetphotography community at orkut, and get lost.
To have been there THEN, …http://www.pbase.com/fonzieuk/image/32855827
and THEN… http://www.pbase.com/fonzieuk/image/32855928
And just in case you thought colour wasn’t everything..http://www.photoblog.be/photoblog.php?nickname=pEnIm&action=view&id=1355964
You HAVE to go here – http://www.nocategory.com/ …don’t forget to scroll left. There’re new pictures everytime you visit. Just type it in and pound enter.
And since I couldn’t figure out how to link to THIS one…
.
made me stop breathing for a while.
Its silent its still
.
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
Memory refused to serve me right and I couldn’t place this line last night as it suddenly appeared in random rambling. Things taken out of context are almost as happy as things mishead. You said that I was the shackles of you.
What’s the frequency, Kenneth?
(the actual REM lyrics are You said that irony was the shackles of youth…how could they not have heard that?)
(and the actual poem is..
The Rival
(Plath)
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,
And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.
The moon, too, abases her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.
No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
-July 1961
)
http://www.qwantz.com/forum/
Instead of a memory. About constructions and realness, and what’s more ..instinctive. (I tiptoe around the word natural). And take my language way more seriously than.
One of them wrote a research proposal about marley. And I thought how cool. And then they proceeded to tear him apart, flying accusations, drugs and twistations, God, if you hate the guy so much don’t do a research paper on him. A stern ’see me’.
And somehow I’m always strangely proud of having cried at a movie, even in a crowded law classroom. Murder in the First. Not recommended.
This song should be taught in history classes.
The Queen and the Soldier
-suzanne vega
The soldier came knocking upon the queen’s door
He said, “I am not fighting for you any more”
The queen knew she’d seen his face someplace before
And slowly she let him inside.
He said, “I’ve watched your palace up here on the hill
And I’ve wondered who’s the woman for whom we all kill
But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will
Only first I am asking you why.”
Down in the long narrow hall he was led
Into her rooms with her tapestries red
And she never once took the crown from her head
She asked him there to sit down.
He said, “I see you now, and you are so very young
But I’ve seen more battles lost than I have battles won
And I’ve got this intuition, says it’s all for your fun
And now will you tell me why?”
The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye
She said, “You won’t understand, and you may as well not try”
But her face was a child’s, and he thought she would cry
But she closed herself up like a fan.
And she said, “I’ve swallowed a secret burning thread
It cuts me inside, and often I’ve bled”
He laid his hand then on top of her head
And he bowed her down to the ground.
“Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel
As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed
But I won’t march again on your battlefield”
And he took her to the window to see.
And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray
And she wanted more than she ever could say
But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away
And would not look at his face again.
And he said, “I want to live as an honest man
To get all I deserve and to give all I can
And to love a young woman who I don’t understand
Your highness, your ways are very strange.”
But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break
And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached
She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait
She would only be a moment inside.
Out in the distance her order was heard
And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word
And while the queen went on strangeling in the solitude she preferred
The battle continued on
4:48 am. And 12 minutes to another research-paper-brainstorming session. I’ve been more a TA than a human this week.
I hate to say it, I hate to say it
It’s probably me
Weird how just those lines extracted from the song itself could mean something completely different from what the song’s actually saying. Anthem beating in ears, sounds of mememe. Just realised that Steve Vai had something very similar in I’ll be Around.
And just say the things I’ll probably never get a chance to say.
(Mary’s in India – Dido)
–>asofterworld.com ka iss week ka comic.
and yellow hats have been following me around.
mb20 should re-release Yourself Or Someone Like You.
I need a camera
To my eye
To my eye
Reminding
I’ve been hiding
Which echoes belong
I’ve counted out
The days to see how far
I’ve driven in the dark
With echoes in my heart
Phone my family
Tell them I’m lost
On the sidewalk
And, no, it’s not OK
-Wilco (Kamera) (excerpt)
Talked to a cousin who used to be something like the only friend I had in the family. Now lives in LA. Her voice had changed. Somehow that struck me the most. We made the usual conversation, parhai and ammi and lahore and karachi. And all the while I kept thinking how ever since my aunt died, I couldn’t hear the squeal in her daughter’s voice anymore.
family. i wish i understood more.
ref: www.sparknotes.com
ps. my template got gobbled up while posting :s (not the first time that that happened), so had to download it again. The links and everything else, will return in a while. (read within the next 16 hours, that’s how long till my lit midterm) .. :s
one afternoon, undreamt of and quite sudden, while k was in lahore and we were on our way back from somewhere, a church or a midmorning foray into a much-gaped-at treasure, a fortress away, not in your backyard. that afternoon, we lost our way, me behind the wheel, just having newly learnt how to drive. she, curled up in the front seat, slouched down low, watching bits of lahore pass by from behind sleepy eyes. i missed a turn, ended up on canal, and kept going, going, going. round a bend, kicking into a motorcycle, asking all and any for directions back to the familiar, charted, come-to-loved place. silence creeped through the indirections, and somewhere along a rather bumpy road squashed behind a semi-rural sprawling mess, i asked the question we often tossed around, always meaning it, never cliched – ‘what’re you thinking?’ and discovered her asleep, very still.
i drove on, feeling much like an honoured young cousin in whose arms the baby has chosen to fall asleep.
It’s not much, and not intended to be orkuttestimonial-like. I wish you’d still write, so I could read you even if we can’t find the hours to talk. I wish you’d be ok and k-like, and not. grown-upslashoddslashquiet. I really do love you, but that never has to be said, does it.
Something I read years ago, sloshing around somewhere, found me today again.
You took away all the oceans and all the room.
You gave me my shoe-size in earth with bars around it.
Where did it get you? Nowhere.
You left me my lips, and they shape words, even in silence.
translated by Clarence Brown and W. S. Merwin
Osip Mandelstam (1891 – 1938)
You’re not alone. There’s a name for people like you. -ic, -ined, -azed, it’s all here, all defined, worry not.
But I left the chinks in so that you could find your way in someday.
.
invigilating an exam is unsurreal. It’s weidling a special tool handed down by a structures upon power structures, complex hierarchy, it’s having the power to make people stand here and sit there but not dance. Here comes the egotrip. (There goes the neighbourhood?) Invigilating friends is even weirder. As if ofcourse I trust you as a friend but I don’t trust you as a student. And what part will you give up all the other parts in your life to play?
I had three thoughts while walking back across the lawn. But lost them, I wasn’t wearing pockets.
For a second today I forgot the gender of my lit teacher. (One of the very very few teachers at uni. Another being my almost definitely slightly crazy discrete math teacher. The rest are instructors). After class, it seemed oddly appropriate. It’s not as if he’s feminine in any way. But mere gender seems to be a crude classification to slot him into..if that makes sense. He seems to be rooted firmly to the floor of the tiny, tucked-away-at-the-back-of-the-building classroom for seventy-five minutes twice a week, and yet he seems to have come from lands distant and unknown. He knows things that seem to be almost, almost out of reach till he plucks them out of that massive head and presents them in fists and gestures.
“Enormous emphasis on the economy of expression”
“Hard-edged, muscular prose”
“we have an apology for a library”
..
“It’s like not having seen the sea”
)..karAchi.(
You let it out, it’s all spent. Sometimes the cliche knocks fervently, wanting to be let in. “It’s like everyone’s already thought up my thoughts”. Someone, somewhere down the line is bound to have. There’ve been a million Great Expectations, all marching in succession, one soldier winding down after the other. Spent, gone. But you had to have the bright-smelling crinkly notes, had to have rubbed your thumb over the silver dents and moles, even if you ultimately handed them over across a dirty counter.
But if all those brilliant generations had all those brilliant thoughts, shouldn’t someone brilliant, once upon a time, once just once have got it right? And shouldn’t then have all the pieces fallen into place?
When you ‘create a space’ for something, give it a place to work, or grow, or bloom into unrecognizable monstrosities, you’re still imposing on it rules of your own. A space can never be a space, since it’s been defined. The other day in assembly, we learnt that infinity was equal to zero into two to the power of 255. Computers seemed to believe it so anyway, and for all practical purposes, it was true.
Today was damp wind and grass, bloated white water pipes carted across campus, one scary moment and one truly ridiculous and high-pitched, and a very very appropriate archie comic. It was sowing ideas for research papers in stranger’s minds, five pages of Tender is the Night, and a shiny mirror metaphor even when mirrors have eluded me all my life. It was scribbling in zeroes and ones and cutting slashing with ink-stained fingers and discovering cheese kababs again.
If you build me a playground, I could put little toy soldiers in it.
Do you really?
I do.
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