"You are a most hopeless idealist – your aspirations are irrealizable. You want from men faith, honour, fidelity to truth in themselves and others. You want them to have all this, to show it every day, to make out of these words their rule of life. The respectable classes which suspect you of such pernicious longings lock you up and would just as soon have you shot – because your personality counts and you cannot deny that you are a dangerous man. What makes you dangerous is your unwarrantable belief that your desire may be realized. This is the only point of difference between us. I do not believe. And if I desire the very same things no on cares. Consequently I am not likely to be locked up or shot. Therein is another difference – this time to your manifest advantage.
There is a – let us say – a machine. It evolved itself (I am severely scientific) out of a chaos of scraps of iron and behold! – it knits. I am horrified at the horrible work and stand appalled. I feel it ought to embroider – but it goes on knitting. You come and say: ‘this is all right: it’s only a question of the right kind of oil. Let us use this – for instance – celestial oil and the machine shall embroider a most beautiful design in purple and gold.’ Will it? Alas no. You cannot by any special lubrication make embroidery with a knitting machine, and the most withering thought is that the infamous thing has made itself; made itself without thought, without conscience, without foresight, without eyes, without heart. It is a tragic accident – and it has happened. You can’t interfere with it. The last drop of bitterness is in the suspicion that you can’t even smash it. In virtue of that truth one and immortal which lurks in the force that made it spring into existence it is what it is – and it is indestructible!
It knits us in and it knits us out, it has knitted time, space, pain, death, corruption, despair and all the illusions – and nothing matters. I’ll admit however that to look at the remorseless process is sometimes amusing." - Joseph Conrad, in a letter to Cunninghame Graham dated 20 December 1897


I’m back – ish. Though after such long separation I must admit slightly tongue-tied and at a loss for words. So let me talk about another movie – its part of a trilogy actually and I only saw the first one today – it was blue – I mean it was called blue. Its French, by a polish chap whose name I couldn’t possibly spell right so I’m not even going to try. The trilogy is colors – blue white and red, for the French flag and they stand, respectively for liberte, egalite, fraternite, mon cher. Blue had Juliette binoche in the lead and apart from being the usual delicious fare in terms of luxuriant lighting and absolutely perfect cinematography, it was also otherwise … absorbing? In terms of treatment I’d give it a perfect score but in terms of content maybe not that great. But then you know me, I’m a sucker for anything even remotely French sounding, oui? With my brilliant luck, I’m sitting right now in probably the only barista in the country which is not actually wi-fi enabled, and I didn’t even think to ask before I blew a load on something I didn’t even particularly want to eat… oh well, at least I’ll save five bucks going home… and I’m not buying any more cigarettes this month, which is not saying much at this late a date. But budgeting is no fun – though I have only spent a 100 rs. On cigarettes this month, that also means I have had to forsake my habitual Camel regulars (“rajasthan ki hai” – Bhaiyyan) in favour (or otherwise) of our dear old pal navy cut. Which I can now conveniently blame for my throat getting progressively sorer instead of improving as my cold disappears. Oh well as they say in teenie pop land: c’est la vie.
p.s. the movie i actually promised to talk about was Birth of a Nation by D.W. Griffiths - the highest grossing silent film of all times - but i guess it'll have to wait in those dark and dusty store rooms of my mind...

turtle

tho' i saw, and admittedly enjoyed, The Cinderella Man yesterday, Harvie Krumpet still rules as my movie of the month... somewhat behind times i realize, but hell. Tho i will admit it tends to be somewhat Slaughterhouse-Five ish. Ah well. In the words of the maestro himself, So it goes.
incidentally, anyone seen I Love(sic) Huckbees?? [heart heart heart - ed.]
And still too lazy and enjoying an unnaturally prolonged hangover to write properly or longer - i wish i could stay in this fishbowl feelin all the time - where the outside world wears strange, undulating faces that somehow cease to surprise or threaten in their alien-ness. So Kashmir will still have to remain a mystery of sorts... tho' i will mention the spectacular bruises of interstellar magnitude i have on my thighs as souvenirs...and there will let it dangle.