I meant to come, dressed in black, and stand at your side.
But then I remembered the last time, and the outpouring of anguish and rage, followed by .. nothing until the next time .. and I wondered if these protests are anything more than a Festival of Grief that revisits the nation every so often. Like sparklers, this outrage burns so bright, it makes hearts leap for a while with hope. But then it fizzles out, and we are back in the dark.
Why is there a time limit on this outrage? Is it only those men with the blood still fresh on their hands who
deserve to hang? What of
the rest? The ones who've walked free for decades, or passed away peacefully without a blemish to their name? Are they excused
because their victims managed to stay alive?
There aren't many protests for these children. Because these children kept quiet. Or were told to keep quiet. These children learnt that their honour meant nothing next to the family's. That they should forget about it, get over it, stop dwelling on it, forget the past, be positive and well it's not like he killed you. These children grew up and are among the men and women around you, and you would never know because they hide so well.
They hide from the the rapists of their childhood, the ones who've walked free for decades and probably always will. They hide from each other, certain that their own pain is unworthy in comparison to others'. And they hide from you - because they have seen that this outrage, this anguish pouring forth demanding castrations and lynchings for those men in the news, doesn't burn long or bright enough to illuminate those dark secrets of another time.
Ask yourself why. Look around you at friends and family. Could you take a stand and condemn someone you know, love, or respect? Or is your outrage a limited offer only, with an expiry date, directed at strangers, for "the others" that are not part of your particular "we"?
Only when your outrage is against every rapist, even if you find one in your own home, your own village, your own state, your own caste.
Only when your anguish is for every abused child: the dead, the living, the ones still young, the ones long gone grey, the losers, the successes, the weirdos.
When you can do this, text me. I will come, dressed in black, to stand at your side.
Showing posts with label INK prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label INK prose. Show all posts
Tuesday, 21 April 2020
Thursday, 30 January 2020
I saw Gandhiji yesterday.
I saw Gandhiji yesterday.
He was tall. He wore torn jeans.
He was dressed for office, and over his buttoned-up cuffs a steel kada gleamed at his wrist.
His bangles were red, and his bindi was blue, and the Lion King roared on his t-shirt.
He was in hijab, and he had just come from the temple, I could tell: his tika was fresh.
He had a bright yellow turban, a white topi, and white hair in a neat bun.
He was clean-shaven, and had a sharp goatee, and glasses - but not those round ones. He was just about eight years old, and well over eighty.
He was wrapped up against the bitter cold, and stood sweating in the sun.
He carried a rose, he carried a sign, he carried our hope and dignity and constitution.
Every time I looked, there he stood, at Town Hall and Azad Maidan and Shaheen Bagh, and he looked back at me and smiled. Smiled like he knew me, like he recognised me, although we had never met before.
When I went home, I discovered why.
I bent at the tap to wash the dust off my face, and when I straightened up, there he was again in the mirror, still smiling at me.
I saw Gandhiji yesterday.
I slept better last night, knowing he's around.
He was tall. He wore torn jeans.
He was dressed for office, and over his buttoned-up cuffs a steel kada gleamed at his wrist.
His bangles were red, and his bindi was blue, and the Lion King roared on his t-shirt.
He was in hijab, and he had just come from the temple, I could tell: his tika was fresh.
He had a bright yellow turban, a white topi, and white hair in a neat bun.
He was clean-shaven, and had a sharp goatee, and glasses - but not those round ones. He was just about eight years old, and well over eighty.
He was wrapped up against the bitter cold, and stood sweating in the sun.
He carried a rose, he carried a sign, he carried our hope and dignity and constitution.
Every time I looked, there he stood, at Town Hall and Azad Maidan and Shaheen Bagh, and he looked back at me and smiled. Smiled like he knew me, like he recognised me, although we had never met before.
When I went home, I discovered why.
I bent at the tap to wash the dust off my face, and when I straightened up, there he was again in the mirror, still smiling at me.
I saw Gandhiji yesterday.
I slept better last night, knowing he's around.
Friday, 26 July 2013
Still.
Sometimes she dreams of him, the one long lost. Even in the dreams he
never belongs to her, but she always seems to belong to him.
She is like a little wind-up toy, searching for a parking space and scurrying down the road to him, while around her papers fly, and grey jets. There is always a war going on in these dreams of hers, a fight for justice and liberty and equality. She never finds out who wins, but that is not why she is there or who she is in the dreams.
She is a doll, the war is outside but they are inside, and he holds her as one might a forgotten toy from childhood found years later: with some tenderness, and a certain respect for that which was once something, and a certain awkwardness at holding something which no longer has a place in one's life.
She is a doll, and he plays with her. Gently. Or not. And his voice is still so soft when he says her name, soft and smoky, and his hands, soft and smudged, and he is always young and whole and smiling and uncertain, and when his eyes look into hers, she feels it go all the way down to her heart.
It is a sweet and nearly innocent tea party, with sugar water and candy for tea and cakes. When it is over, he wraps her in tissue and lays her down in a box and that's when her eyes open, and she finds herself lying alone and unsettled between the fiction of the dream and its almost tangible reality.
Unable to sleep and unable to choose, not sure if going back to sleep will return her to him; she stays awake but really, it is just a waiting and a hoping while her heart beats ribless, so very open and in so much danger but it beats on, unwilling to let go.
And when she truly wakes, she sees that this is all she has of him. Memories. Old memories of what once was - moments and magic and mistakes and misunderstandings. And new memories of dreams that mean nothing, but also something. These have to be enough. They are not, but they have to be. All those years ago, and she still remembers enough to dream.
It was something, to have loved him. It still is.
She is like a little wind-up toy, searching for a parking space and scurrying down the road to him, while around her papers fly, and grey jets. There is always a war going on in these dreams of hers, a fight for justice and liberty and equality. She never finds out who wins, but that is not why she is there or who she is in the dreams.
She is a doll, the war is outside but they are inside, and he holds her as one might a forgotten toy from childhood found years later: with some tenderness, and a certain respect for that which was once something, and a certain awkwardness at holding something which no longer has a place in one's life.
She is a doll, and he plays with her. Gently. Or not. And his voice is still so soft when he says her name, soft and smoky, and his hands, soft and smudged, and he is always young and whole and smiling and uncertain, and when his eyes look into hers, she feels it go all the way down to her heart.
It is a sweet and nearly innocent tea party, with sugar water and candy for tea and cakes. When it is over, he wraps her in tissue and lays her down in a box and that's when her eyes open, and she finds herself lying alone and unsettled between the fiction of the dream and its almost tangible reality.
Unable to sleep and unable to choose, not sure if going back to sleep will return her to him; she stays awake but really, it is just a waiting and a hoping while her heart beats ribless, so very open and in so much danger but it beats on, unwilling to let go.
And when she truly wakes, she sees that this is all she has of him. Memories. Old memories of what once was - moments and magic and mistakes and misunderstandings. And new memories of dreams that mean nothing, but also something. These have to be enough. They are not, but they have to be. All those years ago, and she still remembers enough to dream.
It was something, to have loved him. It still is.
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
Finding yourself.
India is the destination of choice for this. People always talk
about going to India to find themselves. I was always quite chuffed
that, being Indian, I had a head start on all the other nationalities.
India really is a magical place. I'm not sure why. It's also a very
dirty, infuriating and corrupt place. But the magic is still there,
you just have to find it.
So yes, I packed my bags and came home a decade ago. I had had enough of corporate life, and I had started looking within. If I was going to find me, India was the place to do it.
I've been here over ten years now, and it's only just dawned on me that in order to find yourself, you first have to get really really lost. Desperately, horribly, painfully, unfairly lost. (India's the place for that, too).
You don't just show up at Bombay airport and start anew. India hits you in the face - eyes, ears, skin and nose - upon arrival, and will keep on hitting for quite a while. In retrospect, I think it's supposed to be that way. You can't be found without
first being broken and scattered.
Don't worry. It will be worth it.
about going to India to find themselves. I was always quite chuffed
that, being Indian, I had a head start on all the other nationalities.
India really is a magical place. I'm not sure why. It's also a very
dirty, infuriating and corrupt place. But the magic is still there,
you just have to find it.
I've been here over ten years now, and it's only just dawned on me that in order to find yourself, you first have to get really really lost. Desperately, horribly, painfully, unfairly lost. (India's the place for that, too).
You don't just show up at Bombay airport and start anew. India hits you in the face - eyes, ears, skin and nose - upon arrival, and will keep on hitting for quite a while. In retrospect, I think it's supposed to be that way. You can't be found without
first being broken and scattered.
Don't worry. It will be worth it.
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
One day I want to be brave.
One day I want to be brave.
I would like to be like the Warrior in the Manual of the
Warrior of Light.
Or the little Black Girl in search of God.
But I am not. Not yet.
I am afraid. Very afraid. Of almost everything.
So I hide a lot and do very little.
My friend told me yesterday that I am already brave.
I want to believe her.
She says I am brave because I am afraid.
Because I am afraid but still here.
Still here, still trying.
She says I give her hope.
She says when she needs strength she looks at me.
I wish I could look at me the way she does.
I think I will start trying instead of wishing.
I think I will start now, not tomorrow.
Monday, 6 May 2013
How to bake a chicken in 5 easy steps! Or not.
Disclaimer: I am not a food writer. Nor am I a chef. But today I
felt the need to pretend to be both. You have been warned. Proceed with
some caution, as well as a teaspoon of relief for my deep sense of
aesthetics that prevented me from making this an illustrated post.
STAGE ONE ~ in which the chicken comes home ~
Step 1: Run out of cigarettes.
Step 2: Go to the store with more money than you need.
Step 3: Use keen eye to notice someone buying 3 out of 4 packets of Godrej's Real Good Chicken.
Step 4: Use survival instinct to quickly lay hands on the last packet.
Step 5: Make quick getaway (after paying for chicken and cigarettes) because time is of the essence.
STAGE TWO ~ in which the chicken waits ~
Step 1: Arrive home, musing upon exactly what essence it is of which time is made.
Step 2: Dump chicken next to sink.
Step 3: Have cigarette and use ciggie time to pop into Facebook for a few minutes.
Step 4: Use keen eye again, to look at tiny little clock on bottom right corner of screen.
Step 5: Pause to wonder at how an hour can seem like a few minutes when you're farming, and if it has something to do with the chemistry of that mysterious essence of which time is made.
STAGE THREE ~ in which the chicken does terrible dirty things to your hands ~
Step 1: Remove chicken from packet, but leave it in its tray with all the blood and stuff.
Step 2: Take a moment to think about salmonella and cholesterol.
Step 3: Use kitchen scissors to trim away fat from drumsticks and about 4 or 5 other pieces that you suspect might be chicken breasts or parts thereof, or thereabout.
Step 4: Wash selected pieces and place in prized Le Creuset baking dish that you do not use too often because it is extremely heavy, even though it is a lovely bright orange.
Step 5: Take another moment to feel pleased with yourself, and light a cigarette while doing so.
STAGE FOUR ~ in which the chicken gets bathed with good things, but not all of them ~
Step 1: Dump a cup of yoghurt over the chicken in the baking dish (not the chicken in the tray).
Step 2: Chop (or cut with kitchen scissors, which is more fun, provided you are careful not to chop own fingertips) a few pods of garlic over the bowl, and throw in some salt, paprika, mother's garam masala powder that you found in the freezer, and coriander powder.
Step 4: Intend to add pepper and chopped ginger, but forget.
Step 5: Mix it all up nicely, and leave to marinate.
STAGE FIVE ~ in which the chicken feeds the cats ~
Step 1: Place all the fatty dribbly bits that you cut off, into the empty chicken packet, to be later donated to the neighbour with five-or-is-it-more-now cats.
Step 2: Do not even think of opening the smaller packet of gizzards and things, merely place this gently and generously into the cat pack.
Step 3: Trim and wash clean the remaining pieces, except the wings.
Step 4: Stuff the cleaned pieces into freezable tupperware a bit too small, and freeze chicken for another day.
Step 5: Hope chicken freezes before tupperware lid decides to obey the laws of physics and pop off, and ignore niggling thoughts about ice and expansion.
STAGE SIX ~ in which the chicken does not fly ~
Step 1: Stare at chicken wings.
Step 2: Try to trim fat and skin off chicken wings.
Step 3: Fail.
Step 4: Consider putting chicken wings into cat pack.
Step 5: Put chicken wings in empty yoghurt carton and freeze until you can ask mother what to do.
STAGE SEVEN ~ in which the chicken does not feature ~
Step 1: Peel the three least squishy potatoes, and dice - but big dice not those piddly tiny dice you get in Indian board games.
Step 2: Ditto for carrots.
Step 3: Place carrots and potatoes in amazing and amazingly expensive German AMC dish which does not make loud scary whooshes and whistles like a pressure cooker and is easier to clean, and also easier to open and close.
Step 4: Sprinkle more salt than you need so that you can later say to yourself knowingly, "Ah .. next time, less salt, I think," and a generous measure of dried oregano, because it smells nice and looks like something a chef would do, and a capful of water, and cook.
Step 5: Recall that oven underneath needs to be pre-heated and put the oven on.
STAGE EIGHT ~ in which the chicken returns, briefly ~
Step 1: Snap off tips of snow peas and pull down along the shorter side.
Step 2: Admire interesting little spirals of snow pea peelings. Play with them for a few moments to nurture your inner child.
Step 3: Think about how good it is you forgot to put a lid on the tinned mushrooms you opened and poured into tupperware yesterday because otherwise you would not have noticed them in the fridge today, and decide to add mushrooms to your dish.
Step 4: Pour olive oil in skillet for onions that you have not chopped yet.
Step 5: Brown chicken instead.
STAGE NINE ~ in which the chicken goes to hell ~
Step 1: Brown chicken until brown, and little hot dots of oil come popping up out of the skillet to land on your forearms.
Step 2: Remove chicken from fire, and place in baking dish.
Step 3: Bend from the waist because knees hurt even more than back and place chicken in hot fiery oven.
Step 4: Feel a great sense of accomplishment, in advance.
Step 5: Return to jobs yet to be accomplished.
STAGE TEN ~ in which the chicken has visitors ~
Step 1: Peel and chop onions. Cry a little.
Step 2: Ignore strange bubbly chicken fat things in oil, and fry onions in same skillet to save the environment.
Step 3: Cook onions on low fire till pinkish, then add snow peas and mushrooms.
Step 4: Tell yourself that you did not need to add garlic anyway.
Step 5: Stir for random amount of time, then add to baking chicken. (Remove chicken from oven for this. Do not forget to put back in. Also see Stage Eleven, Step 5)
STAGE ELEVEN ~ in which we wait for the chicken to cross the road of rawness ~
Step 1: Have another cigarette to mark completion of Stages One to Ten.
Step 2: Put vegetable peelings into compost bin, wash dishes and clear kitchen counter
Step 3: Open oven door at least twice to stare deeply into eyes of chicken (figurative eyes not actual ones which were not included unless they were in the horrible little packet of gizzards and things) to see if chicken is ready to come out.
Step 4: Make it an hour since the chicken went in, and remove from oven.
Step 5: Vow to always use irksome padded kitchen gloves regardless of kitchen towels being much easier to find. And thinner.
STAGE TWELVE ~ in which the chicken arrives, and departs ~
Step 1: Worry. The moment of truth is near.
Step 2: Serve yourself a plateful and eat.
Step 3: Have a second helping and a third, even though the chicken is drier than you'd like it to be.
Step 4: Finish all the mushrooms and wish you had added more.
Step 5: Share your wonderful experience with the world by blogging about it.
CONCLUSION ~ in which the chicken's tale concludes ~
Step 1: Resist temptation to visit Farmville. Keep blogging.
Step 2: Have one or many cigarettes while you write.
Step 3: Hate your mobile phone for ringing and delivering text messages.
Step 4: Spend some moments thinking about if it would be safe to cook the minced lamb that you left overnight on the back seat of your car.
Step 5: Take the cat's pack upstairs to your neighbour. Ask her about the mince.
STAGE ONE ~ in which the chicken comes home ~
Step 1: Run out of cigarettes.
Step 2: Go to the store with more money than you need.
Step 3: Use keen eye to notice someone buying 3 out of 4 packets of Godrej's Real Good Chicken.
Step 4: Use survival instinct to quickly lay hands on the last packet.
Step 5: Make quick getaway (after paying for chicken and cigarettes) because time is of the essence.
STAGE TWO ~ in which the chicken waits ~
Step 1: Arrive home, musing upon exactly what essence it is of which time is made.
Step 2: Dump chicken next to sink.
Step 3: Have cigarette and use ciggie time to pop into Facebook for a few minutes.
Step 4: Use keen eye again, to look at tiny little clock on bottom right corner of screen.
Step 5: Pause to wonder at how an hour can seem like a few minutes when you're farming, and if it has something to do with the chemistry of that mysterious essence of which time is made.
STAGE THREE ~ in which the chicken does terrible dirty things to your hands ~
Step 1: Remove chicken from packet, but leave it in its tray with all the blood and stuff.
Step 2: Take a moment to think about salmonella and cholesterol.
Step 3: Use kitchen scissors to trim away fat from drumsticks and about 4 or 5 other pieces that you suspect might be chicken breasts or parts thereof, or thereabout.
Step 4: Wash selected pieces and place in prized Le Creuset baking dish that you do not use too often because it is extremely heavy, even though it is a lovely bright orange.
Step 5: Take another moment to feel pleased with yourself, and light a cigarette while doing so.
STAGE FOUR ~ in which the chicken gets bathed with good things, but not all of them ~
Step 1: Dump a cup of yoghurt over the chicken in the baking dish (not the chicken in the tray).
Step 2: Chop (or cut with kitchen scissors, which is more fun, provided you are careful not to chop own fingertips) a few pods of garlic over the bowl, and throw in some salt, paprika, mother's garam masala powder that you found in the freezer, and coriander powder.
Step 4: Intend to add pepper and chopped ginger, but forget.
Step 5: Mix it all up nicely, and leave to marinate.
STAGE FIVE ~ in which the chicken feeds the cats ~
Step 1: Place all the fatty dribbly bits that you cut off, into the empty chicken packet, to be later donated to the neighbour with five-or-is-it-more-now cats.
Step 2: Do not even think of opening the smaller packet of gizzards and things, merely place this gently and generously into the cat pack.
Step 3: Trim and wash clean the remaining pieces, except the wings.
Step 4: Stuff the cleaned pieces into freezable tupperware a bit too small, and freeze chicken for another day.
Step 5: Hope chicken freezes before tupperware lid decides to obey the laws of physics and pop off, and ignore niggling thoughts about ice and expansion.
STAGE SIX ~ in which the chicken does not fly ~
Step 1: Stare at chicken wings.
Step 2: Try to trim fat and skin off chicken wings.
Step 3: Fail.
Step 4: Consider putting chicken wings into cat pack.
Step 5: Put chicken wings in empty yoghurt carton and freeze until you can ask mother what to do.
STAGE SEVEN ~ in which the chicken does not feature ~
Step 1: Peel the three least squishy potatoes, and dice - but big dice not those piddly tiny dice you get in Indian board games.
Step 2: Ditto for carrots.
Step 3: Place carrots and potatoes in amazing and amazingly expensive German AMC dish which does not make loud scary whooshes and whistles like a pressure cooker and is easier to clean, and also easier to open and close.
Step 4: Sprinkle more salt than you need so that you can later say to yourself knowingly, "Ah .. next time, less salt, I think," and a generous measure of dried oregano, because it smells nice and looks like something a chef would do, and a capful of water, and cook.
Step 5: Recall that oven underneath needs to be pre-heated and put the oven on.
STAGE EIGHT ~ in which the chicken returns, briefly ~
Step 1: Snap off tips of snow peas and pull down along the shorter side.
Step 2: Admire interesting little spirals of snow pea peelings. Play with them for a few moments to nurture your inner child.
Step 3: Think about how good it is you forgot to put a lid on the tinned mushrooms you opened and poured into tupperware yesterday because otherwise you would not have noticed them in the fridge today, and decide to add mushrooms to your dish.
Step 4: Pour olive oil in skillet for onions that you have not chopped yet.
Step 5: Brown chicken instead.
STAGE NINE ~ in which the chicken goes to hell ~
Step 1: Brown chicken until brown, and little hot dots of oil come popping up out of the skillet to land on your forearms.
Step 2: Remove chicken from fire, and place in baking dish.
Step 3: Bend from the waist because knees hurt even more than back and place chicken in hot fiery oven.
Step 4: Feel a great sense of accomplishment, in advance.
Step 5: Return to jobs yet to be accomplished.
STAGE TEN ~ in which the chicken has visitors ~
Step 1: Peel and chop onions. Cry a little.
Step 2: Ignore strange bubbly chicken fat things in oil, and fry onions in same skillet to save the environment.
Step 3: Cook onions on low fire till pinkish, then add snow peas and mushrooms.
Step 4: Tell yourself that you did not need to add garlic anyway.
Step 5: Stir for random amount of time, then add to baking chicken. (Remove chicken from oven for this. Do not forget to put back in. Also see Stage Eleven, Step 5)
STAGE ELEVEN ~ in which we wait for the chicken to cross the road of rawness ~
Step 1: Have another cigarette to mark completion of Stages One to Ten.
Step 2: Put vegetable peelings into compost bin, wash dishes and clear kitchen counter
Step 3: Open oven door at least twice to stare deeply into eyes of chicken (figurative eyes not actual ones which were not included unless they were in the horrible little packet of gizzards and things) to see if chicken is ready to come out.
Step 4: Make it an hour since the chicken went in, and remove from oven.
Step 5: Vow to always use irksome padded kitchen gloves regardless of kitchen towels being much easier to find. And thinner.
STAGE TWELVE ~ in which the chicken arrives, and departs ~
Step 1: Worry. The moment of truth is near.
Step 2: Serve yourself a plateful and eat.
Step 3: Have a second helping and a third, even though the chicken is drier than you'd like it to be.
Step 4: Finish all the mushrooms and wish you had added more.
Step 5: Share your wonderful experience with the world by blogging about it.
CONCLUSION ~ in which the chicken's tale concludes ~
Step 1: Resist temptation to visit Farmville. Keep blogging.
Step 2: Have one or many cigarettes while you write.
Step 3: Hate your mobile phone for ringing and delivering text messages.
Step 4: Spend some moments thinking about if it would be safe to cook the minced lamb that you left overnight on the back seat of your car.
Step 5: Take the cat's pack upstairs to your neighbour. Ask her about the mince.
Friday, 3 May 2013
Just shut up and listen.
A lot of people don't know how to listen. When they're family, you
can't do much about it. If they're friends, well, you know you won't be
calling them back any time soon! There is an art to conversation, and if
listening is not a part of it, then there's nothing beautiful about it,
nothing to make you want to return for more.
So why do we do it? Because, life, and everything that goes with it, starts in my head and expands around me. And because life, and everything that goes with it, starts in your head and expands around you. And because life, and everything that goes with it, starts in his or her head and expands around him or her.
What it boils down to is this: at the centre of the universe is me. But what it REALLY boils down to is this: at the centre of MY universe is me. At the centre of YOUR universe - well, it's not me. It's you.
We forget this, especially when in a conversation. So we do it all the time. Talking, I mean. Replying, answering, commenting, advising, informing, sharing outwards from our universe to yours.
None of these are bad things, except that a conversation is a shared process. In between all the talk, replies, answers, comments, advice, information and shares, there need to be spaces. These spaces are quiet spaces. They are not there for us to plan our next words. They are meant to be listening time.
It is not necessary to fill in all the blanks. The more attention we pay to our listening time, the easier this is to see. When someone tells us they are sad, sick or grieving, they do not always need an answer. They do not need to hear that your problems are worse than theirs. They do not need to know what they "should" do. They do not need reassurance that things are not as bad as they seem. Unless they have asked. Have they asked? If you don't know the answer to this, then perhaps you weren't listening.
So why do we do it? Because, life, and everything that goes with it, starts in my head and expands around me. And because life, and everything that goes with it, starts in your head and expands around you. And because life, and everything that goes with it, starts in his or her head and expands around him or her.
What it boils down to is this: at the centre of the universe is me. But what it REALLY boils down to is this: at the centre of MY universe is me. At the centre of YOUR universe - well, it's not me. It's you.
We forget this, especially when in a conversation. So we do it all the time. Talking, I mean. Replying, answering, commenting, advising, informing, sharing outwards from our universe to yours.
None of these are bad things, except that a conversation is a shared process. In between all the talk, replies, answers, comments, advice, information and shares, there need to be spaces. These spaces are quiet spaces. They are not there for us to plan our next words. They are meant to be listening time.
It is not necessary to fill in all the blanks. The more attention we pay to our listening time, the easier this is to see. When someone tells us they are sad, sick or grieving, they do not always need an answer. They do not need to hear that your problems are worse than theirs. They do not need to know what they "should" do. They do not need reassurance that things are not as bad as they seem. Unless they have asked. Have they asked? If you don't know the answer to this, then perhaps you weren't listening.
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, I am awake. I am exhausted. I am overwhelmed.
Tonight, I am awake. I am exhausted. I am overworked - but I am in control.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, for the first time in my life, I am not ashamed to let people see me cry.
Tonight, I realise that it has been some days since I cried, but that I will probably do some crying later when I think about how I didn't see him in hospital while his eyes were still open.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, I am heating a soothing mix of half water, half milk, with honey, crushed cinnamon and cardamom, and a pinch of turmeric, for a bedtime drink that I will make for my mother every night for a month.
Tonight, I make healthy tuna salad sandwiches in pita bread with fresh lettuce and olives, finely chopped coriander and mint, yoghurt, mustard and a big dollop of not-so-healthy ranch dressing, and my mother and I sit at the little breakfast table that was the first thing she bought as a bride, and eat dinner together.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, I sit down next to my father and talk to him softly so that the others in the room can't hear me.
Tonight, I know that he is sleeping and that perhaps he can't hear me. I will talk to him anyway, as loud as I like.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, the child within me tells my father that he reminds her of Snow White, and that it's a good thing his paunch isn't any bigger or it would touch the top of the glass.
Tonight, I remember that, and can smile.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, cousins and aunts and uncles and nephews and nieces and friends are arriving, and phones are ringing, and I repeat the words over and over.
Tonight, I know that all these cousins and aunts and uncles and nephews and nieces and friends will remember me in the morning, and though I am an agoraphobic who always dreads the phone ringing, I will pick up if one of them calls.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, my father is dead, but not yet buried.
Tonight, I know that though my father is buried, he will never be dead to me.
Tonight, I am awake. I am exhausted. I am overworked - but I am in control.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, for the first time in my life, I am not ashamed to let people see me cry.
Tonight, I realise that it has been some days since I cried, but that I will probably do some crying later when I think about how I didn't see him in hospital while his eyes were still open.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, I am heating a soothing mix of half water, half milk, with honey, crushed cinnamon and cardamom, and a pinch of turmeric, for a bedtime drink that I will make for my mother every night for a month.
Tonight, I make healthy tuna salad sandwiches in pita bread with fresh lettuce and olives, finely chopped coriander and mint, yoghurt, mustard and a big dollop of not-so-healthy ranch dressing, and my mother and I sit at the little breakfast table that was the first thing she bought as a bride, and eat dinner together.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, I sit down next to my father and talk to him softly so that the others in the room can't hear me.
Tonight, I know that he is sleeping and that perhaps he can't hear me. I will talk to him anyway, as loud as I like.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, the child within me tells my father that he reminds her of Snow White, and that it's a good thing his paunch isn't any bigger or it would touch the top of the glass.
Tonight, I remember that, and can smile.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, cousins and aunts and uncles and nephews and nieces and friends are arriving, and phones are ringing, and I repeat the words over and over.
Tonight, I know that all these cousins and aunts and uncles and nephews and nieces and friends will remember me in the morning, and though I am an agoraphobic who always dreads the phone ringing, I will pick up if one of them calls.
Tomorrow, right now, two years ago, my father is dead, but not yet buried.
Tonight, I know that though my father is buried, he will never be dead to me.
Sunday, 30 December 2012
How we are accessories to the crime.
I came across this yesterday on Facebook. The author is Anonymous. I know I don't normally post other people's writing here, but I thought this was worth sharing and preserving on my blog. Although it's addressed to men, I agree with Chaitrali from whose page I found this, that women too can be guilty of many of these crimes:
A Message - by Anonymous:
"You stay silent when your mother is treated like shit by your father,
You stay silent when your friend takes dowry from his wife's family,
You stay silent when your classmates sits at a nukkad whistling 'maal' at passing women, saying it is innocent fun,
You stay silent when a million women every year in this nation are murdered before birth or their breath dunked in milk before god, after it,
You don't report the drunkard husband who beat up your maid servant because it is not your business,
You stayed silent when your boss hit upon a female colleague and you told her to grin and bear it because it happens everywhere,
You sing along with your favourite male stars as they call their 'items' chikni chameli and halkat jawani etc.,
You stay silent when our police and paramilitary gang rape tribal and lower caste women and shove stones inside their rectum, saying that that's an aberration of the system,
You did not protest the lower pay that your female colleagues got just because of their sex,
You helped your parents arrange a marriage for your sister against her wishes saying she doesn’t know her mind,
You stayed silent when in a family discussion a woman’s voice was silenced by the cacophony of male voices,
You force a woman to wear burqa in the pretext of sharia law, or justify her domesticity because some asshole called Manu wrote some asinine laws hundreds of years back,
You think feminism is shit and feminists loud mouthed 'bitches' who have no better work to do than cry victim,
You applaud as Hindu right wing men barge into a hotel and slap ‘immoral’ women with the intention of ‘reforming’ their ‘maa’ ‘behen’, (mother, sister)
You stay silent when females in a party are sent away to discuss 'childish' things even as you discuss 'important' things like politics and all in their absence,
You stayed silent when your father directly and sarcastically showed your mother that she's lower than men in intelligence time and again,
You objected loudly when your girlfriend, wife wanted to put her life and career ahead of yours, saying yours was more important,
And now suddenly you have become a man because ONE woman was brutally beaten and raped while you conveniently forget the hundreds of women whose psyche you were responsible for brutally beating and raping directly, or indirectly through your inaction... and now you evoke the same 'maa' and 'behen' argument to protect them...
Thanks to the serpent of your awakened manhood, that woman in Delhi will perhaps get justice. But what about the millions of other women in the country of different religion, region and sect united by their shared injustice who will perhaps never get justice precisely for the same reason - your manhood?"
-Anonymous
A Message - by Anonymous:
"You stay silent when your mother is treated like shit by your father,
You stay silent when your friend takes dowry from his wife's family,
You stay silent when your classmates sits at a nukkad whistling 'maal' at passing women, saying it is innocent fun,
You stay silent when a million women every year in this nation are murdered before birth or their breath dunked in milk before god, after it,
You don't report the drunkard husband who beat up your maid servant because it is not your business,
You stayed silent when your boss hit upon a female colleague and you told her to grin and bear it because it happens everywhere,
You sing along with your favourite male stars as they call their 'items' chikni chameli and halkat jawani etc.,
You stay silent when our police and paramilitary gang rape tribal and lower caste women and shove stones inside their rectum, saying that that's an aberration of the system,
You did not protest the lower pay that your female colleagues got just because of their sex,
You helped your parents arrange a marriage for your sister against her wishes saying she doesn’t know her mind,
You stayed silent when in a family discussion a woman’s voice was silenced by the cacophony of male voices,
You force a woman to wear burqa in the pretext of sharia law, or justify her domesticity because some asshole called Manu wrote some asinine laws hundreds of years back,
You think feminism is shit and feminists loud mouthed 'bitches' who have no better work to do than cry victim,
You applaud as Hindu right wing men barge into a hotel and slap ‘immoral’ women with the intention of ‘reforming’ their ‘maa’ ‘behen’, (mother, sister)
You stay silent when females in a party are sent away to discuss 'childish' things even as you discuss 'important' things like politics and all in their absence,
You stayed silent when your father directly and sarcastically showed your mother that she's lower than men in intelligence time and again,
You objected loudly when your girlfriend, wife wanted to put her life and career ahead of yours, saying yours was more important,
And now suddenly you have become a man because ONE woman was brutally beaten and raped while you conveniently forget the hundreds of women whose psyche you were responsible for brutally beating and raping directly, or indirectly through your inaction... and now you evoke the same 'maa' and 'behen' argument to protect them...
Thanks to the serpent of your awakened manhood, that woman in Delhi will perhaps get justice. But what about the millions of other women in the country of different religion, region and sect united by their shared injustice who will perhaps never get justice precisely for the same reason - your manhood?"
-Anonymous
Saturday, 15 September 2012
Spirit River: If only it wasn't so cold.
Today I took a little dip into Spirit River. A virtual dip, I mean.
The name intrigued me. Also 'spirit' and 'river' are two words
I ... well ... I just like! I'm not sure what I was expecting,
something wild and tribal I think. Instead I found a tiny little town
with great big farming machines, somewhere in Alberta, Canada.
Someone in that tiny town visits my blog, so I decided to pay them a visit.
I didn't find the actual river. But, courtesy of Google, I took a trip
through the town and its history and its happenings. I tried imagining
what it would be like if I was actually there, not just looking at it
through my computer screen and imagination.
First of all, I would be very very cold. The winter photographs
looked a bit like the Christmas cards my parents used to send out
years ago. And I would be very brown. Everyone else in the town
is white, with very rosy cheeks. I did click on a picture of
a Greek Orthodox church to see if there were any Meditteranean
skins to keep mine company, but no, everyone there was white too.
"Everyone", in the case of Spirit River, refers to a little over
1000 people! Just 1000 people. It sounds better than New Zealand!
(Whenever I get fed up with the crowds of humanity I can't help
but encounter in Bangalore, population how-many-million?,
I dramatically announce that I am moving to New Zealand
where I heard there are more sheep than humans. I like sheep.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I am agoraphobic. Travelling down
the road is hard enough. Getting on an aeroplane is not currently an option.)
But I digress. So there I am, little brown me with my nearly
bald head, in a snowy town of 1000 snowy-white people. Yet
I don't believe this would be an issue. Every face in every picture
is smiling. And they appear to be very happy people. They have
huge expanses of clear blue sky above them, fields of green
(outside of snow-time, I presume). Their lives seem to be full.
If I were to create a story from all the pictures I looked at,
this is the story I'd tell:
When they're not farming, they play golf. They ride horses
on the trail, whatever that is. They have parades and ride around
in the most gorgeous antique cars. My, how those cars GLEAM!
Absolutely stunning. Their motorcycles are all polished and lovely, too.
They win hockey tournaments, and go curling, whatever that
may be. I'm assuming it's some sport played on ice, although I think
it would be more fun if it were a more energetic version of spooning.
They plant trees and they garden; soon they will be swimming.
In a heated pool, I hope. They have knights and an unlimited supply
of ducks. They're in touch with God and they sing with glee,
and though their history may not be monumental in the global
context, they treasure it.
That was my favourite part of Spirit River: visiting its history.
It was a bit like reading Little House on the Prairie and
Anne of Green Gables at the same time. I saw little barns
and cabins that could actually be lifted up and transported
on wheels to new venues. I saw grain elevators that looked
as though God had plonked down a few giant milk cartons.
I saw a lovely evocative photograph of Pearl and John Jarvis,
seated in a field in 1932, and my mind is already imagining
a story to go with it. I saw the Molinga triplets and wonder
whatever happened to them, and if their descendants are still
out there, giving birth to multiples. I looked at the Whites,
playing musical instruments in their home, and thought
how similar we all are - tens of years later, thousands of miles
away, I do the same thing with my friends (minus the violin).
I read about the fire of 1921 and wonder if the whole town
burnt down, and then I think that if it had, there must have been
something special about the place for them to want to rebuild it.
I read about the young man who died horribly when a combine
harvester accidentally poured a load of grain over him while
he napped in the empty box of a grain hauling truck , suffocating
him. But I also read about people from this tiny town - young
people who had left and moved on, and now, decades later,
are finding cousins and grandparents all around the world.
I even found real estate listings of big sprawling spreads
of land and beautiful wooden houses. Within my budget, too!
Clean air, happy people (and not a lot of them!) and wide open
spaces. Apparently they age extremely well. I saw one picture
of a white-haired lady busy on top of a ladder, painting the church!
They keep their cars clean, and they recycle. It looks like heaven
from here. Even the curious fact that this town of 1000 feels
the need for a taxidermy shop could not put me off.
But ah, if only it wasn't so cold. (Well, that and the agoraphobia).
The name intrigued me. Also 'spirit' and 'river' are two words
I ... well ... I just like! I'm not sure what I was expecting,
something wild and tribal I think. Instead I found a tiny little town
with great big farming machines, somewhere in Alberta, Canada.
Someone in that tiny town visits my blog, so I decided to pay them a visit.
I didn't find the actual river. But, courtesy of Google, I took a trip
through the town and its history and its happenings. I tried imagining
what it would be like if I was actually there, not just looking at it
through my computer screen and imagination.
First of all, I would be very very cold. The winter photographs
looked a bit like the Christmas cards my parents used to send out
years ago. And I would be very brown. Everyone else in the town
is white, with very rosy cheeks. I did click on a picture of
a Greek Orthodox church to see if there were any Meditteranean
skins to keep mine company, but no, everyone there was white too.
"Everyone", in the case of Spirit River, refers to a little over
1000 people! Just 1000 people. It sounds better than New Zealand!
(Whenever I get fed up with the crowds of humanity I can't help
but encounter in Bangalore, population how-many-million?,
I dramatically announce that I am moving to New Zealand
where I heard there are more sheep than humans. I like sheep.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I am agoraphobic. Travelling down
the road is hard enough. Getting on an aeroplane is not currently an option.)
But I digress. So there I am, little brown me with my nearly
bald head, in a snowy town of 1000 snowy-white people. Yet
I don't believe this would be an issue. Every face in every picture
is smiling. And they appear to be very happy people. They have
huge expanses of clear blue sky above them, fields of green
(outside of snow-time, I presume). Their lives seem to be full.
If I were to create a story from all the pictures I looked at,
this is the story I'd tell:
When they're not farming, they play golf. They ride horses
on the trail, whatever that is. They have parades and ride around
in the most gorgeous antique cars. My, how those cars GLEAM!
Absolutely stunning. Their motorcycles are all polished and lovely, too.
They win hockey tournaments, and go curling, whatever that
may be. I'm assuming it's some sport played on ice, although I think
it would be more fun if it were a more energetic version of spooning.
They plant trees and they garden; soon they will be swimming.
In a heated pool, I hope. They have knights and an unlimited supply
of ducks. They're in touch with God and they sing with glee,
and though their history may not be monumental in the global
context, they treasure it.
That was my favourite part of Spirit River: visiting its history.
It was a bit like reading Little House on the Prairie and
Anne of Green Gables at the same time. I saw little barns
and cabins that could actually be lifted up and transported
on wheels to new venues. I saw grain elevators that looked
as though God had plonked down a few giant milk cartons.
I saw a lovely evocative photograph of Pearl and John Jarvis,
seated in a field in 1932, and my mind is already imagining
a story to go with it. I saw the Molinga triplets and wonder
whatever happened to them, and if their descendants are still
out there, giving birth to multiples. I looked at the Whites,
playing musical instruments in their home, and thought
how similar we all are - tens of years later, thousands of miles
away, I do the same thing with my friends (minus the violin).
I read about the fire of 1921 and wonder if the whole town
burnt down, and then I think that if it had, there must have been
something special about the place for them to want to rebuild it.
I read about the young man who died horribly when a combine
harvester accidentally poured a load of grain over him while
he napped in the empty box of a grain hauling truck , suffocating
him. But I also read about people from this tiny town - young
people who had left and moved on, and now, decades later,
are finding cousins and grandparents all around the world.
I even found real estate listings of big sprawling spreads
of land and beautiful wooden houses. Within my budget, too!
Clean air, happy people (and not a lot of them!) and wide open
spaces. Apparently they age extremely well. I saw one picture
of a white-haired lady busy on top of a ladder, painting the church!
They keep their cars clean, and they recycle. It looks like heaven
from here. Even the curious fact that this town of 1000 feels
the need for a taxidermy shop could not put me off.
But ah, if only it wasn't so cold. (Well, that and the agoraphobia).
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Angel tears
What makes angels cry? Is it something I've done or something I didn't?
The burning grief of phoenix and angel alike tell us that tears heal.
Is it in the dew? Sobs hidden in the thunder? Or sighs in the fog?
Stop being so bad or the angels will weep, they said, and the angel wept anyway.
Bad girls make them cry. That's what they said.
When she wept the angels joined her.
"You bad little girl! Stop being so bad! The angels must be weeping!"
Yes. They weep for her.
16/7/2008
The burning grief of phoenix and angel alike tell us that tears heal.
Is it in the dew? Sobs hidden in the thunder? Or sighs in the fog?
Stop being so bad or the angels will weep, they said, and the angel wept anyway.
Bad girls make them cry. That's what they said.
When she wept the angels joined her.
"You bad little girl! Stop being so bad! The angels must be weeping!"
Yes. They weep for her.
16/7/2008
Friday, 5 August 2011
How to Prevent Murder
"The dramatic term soul murder probably was coined in
the nineteenth century; it was used by the great Scandinavian
playwrights Henrik Ibsen and August Strindberg. Ibsen defines it
as the destruction of the love of life in another human being.
In psychiatry, the term was made familiar by the paranoid
psychotic patient Schreber, whose Memoirs (1903) were
the subject of one of Freud's long case histories (1911)."
- Leonard Shengold, from his book Soul Murder Revisited
(click the title to read Chapter One)
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Just now.
A few moments ago, I read a ReTweet on Facebook and decided to Blog about it (yes, it's all about the Internet these days!!) This is what the Tweet said:
RT @BraveKidsVoices Never let a day go by without giving your children love, affection, attention, protection, respect. Always...
RT @BraveKidsVoices Never let a day go by without giving your children love, affection, attention, protection, respect. Always...
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Serendipity, Sao Paulo
It was love at first sight for me. From the moment I discovered
the Internet, I was hooked. To seal the obsession, I was part
of the team that developed the launch campaign for the Internet
in Bahrain, inet for Batelco. I was one of those copywriters
who liked to believe in the products she sold, and with inet it was easy.
I could go on and on about the joys of the Internet, but for now
I'll rave about just one of them - the way it connects us all,
around the world. Every day that I check my blog, I'm amazed -
and awed - that there are visitors from continents I may never see,
from cities and towns I have never heard of, or places whose names
bring back memories of books I have read or songs I've listened to.
Every now and then I like to google and look for the deeper connection
between myself and these places or the people who come to this blog from them.
This morning I blog-hopped over to Angela's blog in Sao Paulo, Brazil.
It was all in Spanish, but there was one little box in the top right corner,
whose contents I recognised immediately.
Se Deus e por nos,
quem sera contra nos?
It's a line from the Bible's New Testament, one that I'd heard
so often as a schoolgirl, but nothing that I've kept top of mind.
This morning, however, I was disturbed and confused about
something I'd read last night, and there were a zillion questions
bouncing around my mind. My little blog-hop to Sao Paulo
gave me the answer to them all.
Thank you, Angela, for being my connection to this.
the Internet, I was hooked. To seal the obsession, I was part
of the team that developed the launch campaign for the Internet
in Bahrain, inet for Batelco. I was one of those copywriters
who liked to believe in the products she sold, and with inet it was easy.
I could go on and on about the joys of the Internet, but for now
I'll rave about just one of them - the way it connects us all,
around the world. Every day that I check my blog, I'm amazed -
and awed - that there are visitors from continents I may never see,
from cities and towns I have never heard of, or places whose names
bring back memories of books I have read or songs I've listened to.
Every now and then I like to google and look for the deeper connection
between myself and these places or the people who come to this blog from them.
This morning I blog-hopped over to Angela's blog in Sao Paulo, Brazil.
It was all in Spanish, but there was one little box in the top right corner,
whose contents I recognised immediately.
Se Deus e por nos,
quem sera contra nos?
It's a line from the Bible's New Testament, one that I'd heard
so often as a schoolgirl, but nothing that I've kept top of mind.
This morning, however, I was disturbed and confused about
something I'd read last night, and there were a zillion questions
bouncing around my mind. My little blog-hop to Sao Paulo
gave me the answer to them all.
Thank you, Angela, for being my connection to this.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
The Mysterious Case of the Unresolved Anger
Where does it go?
Nobody sees it, not even me.
I feel it birth and swell and rise and disappear.
I think it is gone, but I should know better.
Here it is, in my blood, spitting such words of poison to the cells around it
that they cling to each other, dig their nails into walls and hold on for dear life.
There my anger is, in my arteries and veins hardening me inch by inch
all the way to my heart.
And not just in my blood, I feel it in my bones eating through and wearing me thin.
Here it is in my knees, hurting me so bad I cannot climb the stairs to an open terrace,
or sit cross-legged to play games with a baby.
Here too in my eyes, holding back the tears so the pressure builds and builds and one day
I will have to give way and be blinded by the flood of anger that sucks me into its darkness.
Here is my anger, in my stomach burning acid.
Here on my skin, erupting in tiny volcanoes of rage, breaking out across my flesh like
a rampaging, molten mob.
Here - and there - in my kidney, in my hair.
My anger is invisible, nowhere and everywhere.
I can fool myself for a while, say it's gone and smile and ignore all the clues
but my body will snarl out the truth.
#
Nobody sees it, not even me.
I feel it birth and swell and rise and disappear.
I think it is gone, but I should know better.
Here it is, in my blood, spitting such words of poison to the cells around it
that they cling to each other, dig their nails into walls and hold on for dear life.
There my anger is, in my arteries and veins hardening me inch by inch
all the way to my heart.
And not just in my blood, I feel it in my bones eating through and wearing me thin.
Here it is in my knees, hurting me so bad I cannot climb the stairs to an open terrace,
or sit cross-legged to play games with a baby.
Here too in my eyes, holding back the tears so the pressure builds and builds and one day
I will have to give way and be blinded by the flood of anger that sucks me into its darkness.
Here is my anger, in my stomach burning acid.
Here on my skin, erupting in tiny volcanoes of rage, breaking out across my flesh like
a rampaging, molten mob.
Here - and there - in my kidney, in my hair.
My anger is invisible, nowhere and everywhere.
I can fool myself for a while, say it's gone and smile and ignore all the clues
but my body will snarl out the truth.
#
Thursday, 30 September 2010
The fish stops here.
And so do the Swedes and Cambodians, and people from over fifty
countries around the planet. I don't know why, but over the past week,
there have been so many new visitors to this blog. What was it?
Audrey Hepburn's middle finger? I honestly don't know.
I'm thrilled to have more hits, of course, but what I absolutely
love is seeing the names of places from where people are connecting
to me. So many are names I have heard of or read about, and a few
that I've visited. But it's the ones I've never heard of before that are
the most exciting. Once I've checked my Visitor's Map and then
updated my alphabetical list (a most joyous task for anyone with
obsessive-compulsive tendencies), I then pick one of the
previously-unknown places and google it.
Which brings me to the title of this post. Somewhere in the state
of Sao Paulo, in the country Brazil, there is a city, nearly 250 years
old, called PIRACICABA. They call it "the bride of the hills".
I have no idea what a Brazilian bride looks like. The only
Brazilian women I've ever seen were in carnival processions on TV,
looking very exotic, sparkly and feathery. So I deduce that Piracicaba
is a sizzling hot place, with a nice set of hills.
I found a connection, too: every year Piracicaba is host
to the International Fair of Humour, where work from cartoonists
around the world is on display. In tribute to my Piracicaban reader,
I must dig out my favourite cartoon and post it here.
You're still wondering about the fish? Well, the city is bisected
by waterfalls, and fish that swim upstream to reproduce - I'm
presuming some type of salmon - can be seen here. The name
"Piracicaba" is from a word in the Tupi language that means
“place where the fish stops”.
I find that delightful.
P.S. Anyone know how the name is pronounced? I'm choosing
to say pee-raa-chi-KAA-ba. That's what it looks-like-it-sounds-like to me :o)
countries around the planet. I don't know why, but over the past week,
there have been so many new visitors to this blog. What was it?
Audrey Hepburn's middle finger? I honestly don't know.
I'm thrilled to have more hits, of course, but what I absolutely
love is seeing the names of places from where people are connecting
to me. So many are names I have heard of or read about, and a few
that I've visited. But it's the ones I've never heard of before that are
the most exciting. Once I've checked my Visitor's Map and then
updated my alphabetical list (a most joyous task for anyone with
obsessive-compulsive tendencies), I then pick one of the
previously-unknown places and google it.
Which brings me to the title of this post. Somewhere in the state
of Sao Paulo, in the country Brazil, there is a city, nearly 250 years
old, called PIRACICABA. They call it "the bride of the hills".
I have no idea what a Brazilian bride looks like. The only
Brazilian women I've ever seen were in carnival processions on TV,
looking very exotic, sparkly and feathery. So I deduce that Piracicaba
is a sizzling hot place, with a nice set of hills.
I found a connection, too: every year Piracicaba is host
to the International Fair of Humour, where work from cartoonists
around the world is on display. In tribute to my Piracicaban reader,
I must dig out my favourite cartoon and post it here.
You're still wondering about the fish? Well, the city is bisected
by waterfalls, and fish that swim upstream to reproduce - I'm
presuming some type of salmon - can be seen here. The name
"Piracicaba" is from a word in the Tupi language that means
“place where the fish stops”.
I find that delightful.
P.S. Anyone know how the name is pronounced? I'm choosing
to say pee-raa-chi-KAA-ba. That's what it looks-like-it-sounds-like to me :o)
Monday, 27 September 2010
Opium was a medicine, too.
For some people, it's the first thing they turn on in the morning. For some, it stays on all day. For some, all night.
For some it's the soaps or serials that Simply Cannot Be Missed. It's just not the same watching a rerun the following morning. It would be like eating cold pizza. Oh, the rerun might be watched too, but that fresh first showing, oftentimes with extra cheese, can't be missed.
Sometimes the TV is a babysitter who can turn hyperactive children turn into placid zombies who can go without blinking for extraordinarily long periods of time while their parents reassure themselves that this lesser evil is for the greater good.
Sometimes it's company. Voices .. actors, musicians, news reporters .. men, women, children, animals .. the good, the bad, the ugly .. it doesn't matter what, as long as it cuts into the silence of loneliness.
Sometimes it's crowd control, because it's easier to watch a screen than it is to go out and be part of something else, whether that's a sporting event or a riot.
Sometimes it's journeys - into the past, onto an African savannah, behind the scenes or where the action is.
But whatever it is, it does something for us, takes us away or distracts us or just fills the time between one day and the next.
I'm not addicted to it, no, not me. I could easily live without it, but I like having it around. I like my serials and comedies and movies, and voices coming from the other room. I like the vampires and the impossible stunts and the surprisingly good-looking forensic scientists. I like everything except the ads (but that's another story.)
But what I like most is that inbetween all the channels and cacaphony, I sometimes find little poetic pearls of wisdom that I consider good enough to scrawl on my designated scrawling wall. (Yes I really do have one, and highly recommend the concept). And I thought I'd share them with you:
"Your job is to be yourself. And my job is to love you, no matter what."
- the father of Kurt (who is gay), on an episode of "Glee"
"We're all scared. If you're not scared, you're not paying attention."
- Dr. Bailey, on "Grey's Anatomy"
"One day you wake up and you find that you don't mind carrying it around with you."
- Detective Kate Bennett, on "Castle"
(she was talking about coming to terms with her grief and trauma over her mother's murder)
"Scars remind us where we've been. They don't have to dictate where we're going."
- Agent Rossi, on "Criminal Minds"
TV may be the "opium of the masses", but sometimes it has a healing touch.
For some it's the soaps or serials that Simply Cannot Be Missed. It's just not the same watching a rerun the following morning. It would be like eating cold pizza. Oh, the rerun might be watched too, but that fresh first showing, oftentimes with extra cheese, can't be missed.
Sometimes the TV is a babysitter who can turn hyperactive children turn into placid zombies who can go without blinking for extraordinarily long periods of time while their parents reassure themselves that this lesser evil is for the greater good.
Sometimes it's company. Voices .. actors, musicians, news reporters .. men, women, children, animals .. the good, the bad, the ugly .. it doesn't matter what, as long as it cuts into the silence of loneliness.
Sometimes it's crowd control, because it's easier to watch a screen than it is to go out and be part of something else, whether that's a sporting event or a riot.
Sometimes it's journeys - into the past, onto an African savannah, behind the scenes or where the action is.
But whatever it is, it does something for us, takes us away or distracts us or just fills the time between one day and the next.
I'm not addicted to it, no, not me. I could easily live without it, but I like having it around. I like my serials and comedies and movies, and voices coming from the other room. I like the vampires and the impossible stunts and the surprisingly good-looking forensic scientists. I like everything except the ads (but that's another story.)
But what I like most is that inbetween all the channels and cacaphony, I sometimes find little poetic pearls of wisdom that I consider good enough to scrawl on my designated scrawling wall. (Yes I really do have one, and highly recommend the concept). And I thought I'd share them with you:
"Your job is to be yourself. And my job is to love you, no matter what."
- the father of Kurt (who is gay), on an episode of "Glee"
"We're all scared. If you're not scared, you're not paying attention."
- Dr. Bailey, on "Grey's Anatomy"
"One day you wake up and you find that you don't mind carrying it around with you."
- Detective Kate Bennett, on "Castle"
(she was talking about coming to terms with her grief and trauma over her mother's murder)
"Scars remind us where we've been. They don't have to dictate where we're going."
- Agent Rossi, on "Criminal Minds"
TV may be the "opium of the masses", but sometimes it has a healing touch.
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