falsa larm.

I do not like the new blog anymore.
So it is now the ex-blog.
My new new blog is the old blog.
Id est this one.
My drawing blog also lives.
Alleluia!

I glanced at the previous entries.
They are childish!
And exasperating!
And about as profound and moving and well-executed as Donald Trump's haircut!

Alas, they must remain.

I have taken this up again partly because I am now in a course called 'Writing in Practice' at college.
And partly because I can't wait to fill a speck of the internet with more of my rubbish.

It is a noble plan, and effective immediately.

NIGHT OF THE TRANIBORGS.

I'm writing SF, apparently. To the perfectly wonderful and incongruous soundtrack of rembetiko classics. You can tell from the title of the post that 'Utopia' is somewhere on my mind, although I feel the need to declare that my slow, softboiled SF effort is neither inspired by More's or anyone else's 'Utopia'.

I cannot, of course, guarantee that my story will not be called 'Night of the Traniborgs'.

I got back negatives for my holiday photos. All distressingly dull, as usual, but I'll excuse myself, because most of my holiday was spent climbing boulders and skipping waves. And the damned camera, the damned camera is an automatic. What can I say.

I recently translated a Bangla children's story into... into Scots, and will be posting it here as soon as I can preface it with the most articulate disclaimers possible. I wasn't expecting a standing ovation or a gift certificate, but I had mentioned that I'd be translating into Scots the previous day; the professor seemed comfortable enough reading it out; and then to say 'this is not English'. I mean: no, it's not English. Nor is it Scottish Gaelic. It's Scots. I'm not an authentic writer of Scots and I wasn't trying to pull that off, but whatever I did I did consciously. Is there something disconnect between what I was supposed to take from that observation and what I did? As a somelongtime fan of Scots-in-writing I found it fascinating. It's not perfect, it's probably laughable, but I understand the politics of this, I think, and some of the resonances between the languages made it worthwhile and pleasurable enough to pursue. So. There. Shrug.

Doshomi.

Hello. I haven't gone out yet, but art and writing and footy have kept me happy. I guess my mum's cooking helps, too. Isn't it always supposed to? Imagine the cultural embarrassment when your mum sucks at cooking. Enough salt to burn your throat and squeeze your tongue out of your mouth - na, maa, akdom noon kom hoi ni!

My brother got me to sit down to watch 'Rang de Basanti' today. It's very well-made, and the boy banter is almost hilarious. Apart from this - the trope of Earnest Young White Woman reintroducing existential-crisissified Indians to their historical heritage or things of similar, exalted nature, where have I seen this before? And ok, yay for parties. I am underwhelmed. Don't mind me, I'm just a cynical hater.

STOIC CHEESE.

Rivets in my spine. A long metallic grin.

This Tavener fellow and his Protecting Veil. I don't hear holy, I hear hole in the ground.

But their connection: woolly. Expound. Argufy. Give examples.

Project Objectify. Keepin' it light and oh-so-tight.

Look. I was gonna say stuff about, y'know, THE SPORT ITSELF, because even with my limited knowledge of skatesthetics/jargon I know Plushenko is hardcore brilliant. I was gonna try to pad and puff my post with absolutely scintillating trivia, such as the fact that, apart from being a superachieving ice star, he is also apparently in the Russian Army. I was gonna post pictures - naturally not the slightly scarring one where he's grinning at Vladimir Putin.

Then I thought, to hell with that shit! Ladies, laddies and all other gentlefolk of the world - I present Evgeni 'Sex Bomb' Plushenko.



Edit: barring the next Project Objectify post, all frothy frivolosity re footy will rest over at DLG.

the unimaginable zero summer

Dear October:


Please be quiet.

Hmm.

The local rickshawallahs are dragging out their Bishhokorma Pujo celebrations. Which include playing music really loudly. It's always Rabindrasangeet and classic Bangla film songs in the morning, and Hindi filmi hits in the afternoon. Really, it's like an unwritten rule. You know how specific ragas are associated with specific hours/periods of the day? Reminds me of that.

Last night after a weekend's worth of gnashed teeth and high blood pressure I ended up watching both English Premier League matches on tv - Chelsea-Liverpool and Arsenal-Man.Utd, each ending 1-0. I'll spare this little blog my match babble, except I am a goalie fan and I cannot lie even by omission. Petr Cech was wonderful, which made me root for Celsea even though I don't exactly support either team. See how complicated football fandom is? And in the other one, green (erm, literally, too) boy Tomasz Kuszczak did his 'mates proud. Of course Arsenal were once again criticised by the commentators for being slow starters, for not capitalising on all their chances, for their lack of Thierry Henry. I mean, I agree with the second one, but English footy seems to have this unhealthy obsession with madscramblethud!action. It makes for excellent dorkiness, of course, but I suppose I'm used to a slower, more Machiavellian oh did I just type that? scratch it more calculated style of play.

Oops, babbling despite myself. Jens Lehmann almost got his darling face broken while blocking from - was it Cristiano or Wayne Rooney? One of the brats, anyway. That was close. Over during Milan-Parma, though, poor ickle Gilardino's match ended in blood and stitches. It's not serious, but again. Close.

This morning, among the many appalling news stories I woke up to, this one gave me a bit of hope. Not the bit about the actual fact of the commercial, but the fact that Vasselli isn't taking this shit as the 'harmless joke' the men responsible for it so conveniently thought it was. You know how feminists are, always getting their knickers in a twist over yet another harmlessly jokey jab at their historical and innate incompetency at, well, everything including recognising 'irony'.

Two steps forward, three steps back: or, internalised misogyny is such a bitch (ooh, I was being ironic, don't you know). If that's depressing, have a non-sexist giggle over this!

Of bards, boys and birds.

We are studying 'Hamlet'. I am geeking out on the textual studies geekery of it.


I want. Not fond of this unhealthy obsession with the EPL, although so many of my favourite players are there. Butbut Scottish, Dutch and French league matches! I haff neffer seen those! Now if only someone would show some Bundesliga and Liga Argentina... Oh who am I kidding. I barely ever have time to watch anything, much as I'd love to. And it is frustrating to watch footer on tv anyway, imagine myopic eyes swimming in a sea of icklebickle pinpickle, and the camera whorishly following the ball even though it's almost as much fun to watch one of the goalies keep himself awake at the far end... And I still haven't decided whom to make that subversively fruity Project Objectify (a.k.a Hot Male Athletes Are Just That) post on. Aishwarya decided on Rafael Nadal, he-who-is-too-young, and Supriya on Thierry Henry, who is like an ice dancer except on grass not ice and with a ball not skates. Um.


Um. Yes. So. In my frivolous froufrouey way, the only news I will comment on has little to do with war, horror and woe, not because I don't care or have my head under sand or anything, but because this blog is now officially frothcentric. Until the next white-hot feminist rant, at any rate. The news is this: a new bird species has been discovered in India, specifically in Arunachal Pradesh. It has been named the Bugun Liocichla and it is most darling to behold, assertively coloured (guessing the picture in the paper is of a male) and spiky-capped. I read also that it has a beguiling song. How lovely is the loveliness. There doesn't seem to be too many of them, which is a situation that one hopes will change. If only there were incentive packages for the reproduction of birds, eh? (I think that rant is about to explode on to this blog very soon.)

WWJD? Whom would Jesus do? It could be... YOU!

So I rediscover an old song whose violiny bits I rather liked. Ah, it's 'Flames' by Vast. Slow and schmoopy and simple, good song for a not-yet-rainy afternoon. And ah, there are the angsty violiny bits. And ok, so the lyrics are utterly useless... 'Close the door, leave your fears behind, let me give you what you're giving me...' And then the guy goes, 'Just put me inside you, I will never ever leave.' Repeats this, more insistent now. Then crooning and violins. By now the song's spell, however cheap and brief, has been utterly broken.

I suppose the reason I collapsed into snickers has to do with a story a friend related this morning, from today's paper (I shall have to ask which one). Something about a group of nuns bringing in a hysterical rickshawallah. The rickshawallah moaned and writhed and rolled his eyes before his anxious audience - some of whom thought the poor man was going through a heart attack. But what was really happening? 'Jesus had come in him'.

Anyway, I'm going to listen to some nice Mahmoud Ahmad songs now and attempt to write something that resembles verse.

Hwæt!

My internet and computer both seem to be working, and, shockingly, in synchrony! Praise them with great praise. And I have rather neglected the blogosphere for a long time, haven't I? Have kept busy, though, with medieval texts on virginity (damned if you do, damned if you don't), trashy cable telly, and before I forget to underline this, league football

During the World Cup I remembered why and how much I'd loved the whole sprawling mess; by now, I'm keenly aware of the perilous state of my blood pressure. Because I realised: this is why I stopped watching. God, the corruption, the conflicting rumours of transfers and public statements, the conspicuous lack of any football beyond the bloody EPL on tv (rodeo boys, golfers and cricketers of the world, never have I hated you more)... But it is exactly this helpless and cynical excitement I seem to crave. I suppose I can live with the collateral damage - worrying over whether the bloodthirsty moneybags who run the business will tear Jesusboy Kaká away from AC Milan, or why Alessandro Nesta is selling Gatorade instead of spumante. Anyway, it is a beautiful game, and I'm touched by the vanity and the sublimity. Despite myself.

Regarding Steve Irwin, whose death prompted the Telegraph, my current Englang daily, to print two obituaresque articles in yesterday's paper. He seems either to be adored for his all-too-easily caricatured Australianisms and love of wildlife, or to be demonised for trying to feed his son to a crocodile and generally Disneyfying everything with teeth and scales. I actually thought immediately of Timothy Treadwell, alias the 'Grizzly Man', who got himself and his girlfriend killed by bears three years ago. Treadwell made the monumental mistake of thinking himself very like a bear, which bit of delusion proved fatal. On the other hand, people dying on the job - happens all the time, why bring convoluted notions of karma/ the animal world 'taking revenge' (Germaine, Germaine, you are not very germane) into it? What a singular connection to have made with a sea creature. Poor bloke.

I am so happy I finally got to see 'Stage Beauty'. It's heady - not with the stench of inch-perfect period drag and perfume, but with thought and insight. It is spirited and cheerful about its anachronisms. It even has a smart soundtrack. The fact that Billy Crudup has incredible hands also helps. For some reason I cannot now remember I had expected to be troubled by its treatment of gender, but that final exchange between Maria and Kynaston, where Maria asks him, 'And what are you now?' and Kynaston answers, 'I don't know', repeats this, almost awed by the revelation yet utterly at ease with it - I could have wept yes. Yes to this film, damn your cynical damnations of the human psychology, yes because 'I don't know' is a more powerful and true and audacious answer than 'this' or 'that'.

I am listening to the B-52's and my two-year old stash of Italian pop. False nostalgia reigns.

And the fangirls screamed.

OH GOD I AM REALLY DOING IT.
I AM WRITING TO STEPHEN FRY TO TELL HIM HOW MUCH I LOVE HIM.

Wonder if I can insert a salacious little epistle, codified of course. A double dose of pleasure, don't you see, first the cerebrum-wriggling exercise of deciphering the message-within-the-message, and second the trouser-squirming delight of ... well... having deciphered it.


Classes, semester three, year two, day one: Excellent. Remind me again why we didn't have Old English in the first semester?


Aishwarya keeps hinting at me to blog about things that are consequential. In fact, now that I mention it, I welcome suggestions from all quarters! I can't ever seem to be serious on this website, but I suppose there's no harm in trying. I'm game.

UGH.

Anyone from my college who's reading this - please confirm or deny the rumour that classes start on the 10th.

Working on my Bullshit Detector (tm). The zero-tolerance setting, that is.

I could explain, but I know enough about people not to trust them. So.

Notes to self.

1. Penalty shootoutss are mildly traumatic, when not downright entrants into the 'trainwreck' category.
2. FIFA's giving them referees some kinda crack and it is NOT JIVING.
3. Oh Brazil, how sick and tired I am of you. How sick and tired exactly? I wrinkle my nose and yawn the moment I see Ronaldo tumbling towards the goalpost.
4. ESPN India telejourno hack with glasses? Shut your pie-hole. Failing which, just, like, die or something. Thanks.

Memeage.

Got tagged by Aishwarya. Not tagging anyone in turn because my blog readership beyond the other people she tagged is er doubtful at best. So here goes.


I am thinking about
Sunnyside up, eggs.

I said
'We all know which of them really was hired for being pretty.'

I want to
Draw.

I wish
That gorgeous book on Schiele didn't do the inanimate-object equivalent of dancing naked in front of me. With bells on.

I miss
The news, sometimes.

I hear
Lebanese pop. Vot?

I wonder
If I should write to Stephen Fry (oh my god, my palms are so clammy they're practically clams, how do you write to that man without exposing yourself as a witless loutish spewer of metaphoric botty-dribble?).

I regret
School.

I am
Your daddy.

I dance
Like Moz.

I sing
Songs by The Smiths, operatically. I am awesome. *inserted pointed look from taggee in general direction of tagger*

I cry
For my country! Alas ehui hay bhogobaan.

I am not always
This patriotic.

I write
In cursive. Ain't nothin' sexier.

I confuse
Death metal bands with other death metal bands.

I need
Money to spend on books.

I should try
Sushi.

I finish
With a clean plate.


Ta-ta for now.

Fame fame fatal fame.

It's been a rough couple of months, my little honeylumps, sugarcrumbs and other assorted antipastry. Did you miss me? Aww.

I have the cough from hell, very puerile of old Luci to poke me in the alveoli with his silly cutlery every two and a half minutes. It's summertime and the weather is fine for the sweet oblivion of sleep and misery. I now have no idea if I should pick up a Middle English reader or a copy of 'How To Read D.H. Lawrence's Fiction Without Wanting To Commit Random Acts of Homicide - For Dummies' because this optional course business is just sparkly and unpredictable like that.

There seems to be a copy of 'Trainspotting' in the Film Studies library, which is exciting but sad because Ewan IS SO NOT Rent Boy.

What else? VH1, please stop showing Arctic Monkeys videos. As India's resident expert on British 'indie' rock, I declare them provincial, overrated and just plain sorry.

I fail to understand what I've recently identified as a folkloric obsession with the procreative powers of snot, but I guess it's all good.

God the heat.

I've been licking the fridge clean of all kinds of yummy summer fruits. Aam, well, of course, but also talshash and lichoo - such chastely pale watery jellyish things.


While writing songs - rather heavy on the lyric side, alas - I occasionally stop and think, why do I even need a defined 'chorus'? Or for that matter a 'bridge'? But the basics are basics for a good reason. The real challenge of songwriting is not even the songwriting part. And yes, one of the songs is dedicated to an oddly charming, quite alarming man with a disproportionately large head on his queenly shoulders. It promises to be by turns lustful, worshipful, scathing and cold. (I've been learning from the Wainwright-McGarrigle school of the politics of lovehate.)


I was almost forgetting. Last night I watched an entire episode of a reality TV show! It was called 'The Cut' - you know there's plenty of design school wank to be found where people have 'clothing artist' after their name. These shows never fail to amaze me - we have here successful (well, one measure of success at least), smart young people who are getting The Big Opportunity to prove to the world their successfulness and smartness, but all they manage to prove is their (callow) youth. Tommy Hilfiger (did I spell that right?) is the Donald Trump, here, as the ugly corporate panjandrum with hair that would be ashamed to grow on the arse of an... ass. And the tagline? Is the brilliant, cutting 'You're out of style. Take the runway.'

Um! Let's see. There were pushy, desperate, people, of course. Poor teamwork, predictably. On one team there was a straight white woman who had to work with a gay black man;she harrassed him and in doing so made an revolting clown of herself. On internationally broadcast telly. People must have really fucked up brains if they can take so unquestioningly to heart that all publicity is good publicity.

I have a tremendous distaste for any smart successful young person who can say without collapsing into self-deprecating humour that they are the best and they always win and they don't know what being second is. Crass, crass, crass. But then reality TV was never supposed to be about reality - it's about TV, and this sort of earnest pronouncement is good for a laugh. Because suspense is impossible in a medium where every day brings a new cliffhanger.

But this is old hat. I missed this week's 'House', bah.

'... of nothing in particular'

I looked at the first Sin City book today. The story bored me to death but I was hooked to the gorgeous stark art. Come to think of it, I thought the artwork was unnecessarily fussy. Comic geeks, feel free to kill me for the sacrilege.

I have a Holy Bible now. The inside cover says

Presented to :-
Dr B.D. Agarwalla F.R.C.S.
4 Bishop Lifnoy Road
Cal-20.

With best of compliments of :-
Michael Bhattacharjia
Gideon Association.
C/o "Waldorf"
24-B Park St. Calcutta 16.

Today was a beautiful day. Today was a beautiful day in Kolkata. Today was.

A gem! Truly, a gem!

Found in a PoCo theory book:
... whereas Western gynocriticism heralds the pen(is) as responsible for fathering texts and the female ink/milk as a possible lubricant for the blank page.

I read gender theory and literary theory and it's a lot more fun than you'd think, but the sheer hilarity of it shines through, sometimes. As it does up there.


One of the recent Da Vinci Hullaballoo articles somewhere quotes flamboyantly gay actor Ian McKellen. What? Ian is one of the least flamboyant actors around. He brings the snark, you idiot journo, prepare to be decimated. But it reminded me of how much of a cliche it's turned into, like troubled rockstar, only more pervasive. If you're gay you are by default flamboyant. If you're straight and you regularly talk to the press about your sexual exploits, you're not labelled flamboyantly hetero (Eva Longoria, I'm looking at you). The undertone is, however, that 'flamboyance' is somehow disturbing. The world likes its gays withdrawn, depressed, closeted, dead. Woe unto them if ever they express a lack of shame or guilt! Of course, Lesbians Don't Exist, except in the liberated (COUGH) fantasies of straight men, so there are no flamboyant lesbians. But wait, what does it then mean whenever the players of the Brazilian football team are written up as 'the flamboyant striker' etc etc. ? Oooh.


When I was at school, a lot of girls who watched the football World Cup were mocked by the boys for supporting teams because the players were attractive. I call bullshit. First of all, boys, there happens to be something aesthetically delightful about grown men piddling around on grass in shorts and translucent jerseys clamouring after a BIG BALL. (Incidentally, going by the spirit of the PoCo book sentence I quoted, perhaps the reason why goalies are so frequently villified is that they're in the sole feminised role in their team? Their job is to resist, if in vain, penetration? I like this little theory of mine.) Second! Make fun of your fellow fans only when you've pulled that twice-life-size David Beckham poster off your own wall.

You can crush us, you can bruise us, but you have to answer to...

Increasing reluctance to reveal much of my thoughts. The world filtered through my ego, slick/shoddy rainbows in puddles of petrol.

I've been drawing and writing, though. And have rediscovered the Clash.

So. Hello, of sorts. Recommend a contemporary work of fiction in either Bangla or Hindi. Sharp, smart, bitter, possibly on crack. Go on, I've bookworms burrowing my brain through and they demand tastier morsels.




Beastly!