29 June 2006

Viva Italia???

ha ha ha... well done to this chinese commentator, called Huan Jianxiang and his enthusiasm in the last minutes of the world cup match between Australia and Italy. Italy won a penalty, and well shot the ball in the net, knocking Australia out of the tournament. But i'm sure y'll already knew that, so.. here we go.. the video with the commentary is here.
the translation is here...

Penalty! Penalty! Penalty! Grosso's done it, Grosso's done it! The great Italian left back! Facchetti, Cabrini and Maldini, their souls are infused in him at this moment! Grosso represents the long history and traditions of Italian soccer, he's not fighting alone at this moment! He's not alone!

And after Totti's goal...

Goooal! Game over! Italy win! Beat the Australians! They do not fall in front of Hiddink again! Italy the great! Left back the great! Happy Birthday Maldini! Forza Italia! The victory belongs to Italy, to Grosso, to Cannavaro, to Zambrotta, to Buffon, to Maldini, to everyone who loves Italian soccer! Hiddink ... lost all his courage faced with Italian history and traditions... he finally reaped fruits which he had sown! They should go home. They do not need to go as far away as Australia as most of them are living in Europe. Farewell!

***

Here is a comment from a fan on BBC's opinion page that I thought encompasses the Italian team and their performances very well. I thought that this should be here, because many people feel that the Italian team is over rated and doesn't deserve to be in the World Cup finals. If the point of the games is to make it more interesting to the spectators, and to enthrall them with skill and performance, then mebbe that's true, and even that would be subjective. On the other hand, if its just to play a game, fair and square (this again being subjective), then they do.

"Italy rarely get the credit that is due, and we haven't even been knocked out of the World Cup play since 1986. We have a great goalkeeper, an outstanding defence, a pretty decent midfiled and some very good strikers. We are one of the leading contenders for the World Cup. We have had a tough group but we have won it and now we have quite an easy draw."

26 June 2006

Mmm.. the 21st

Fuck.. I'm 21 and well thanks loads to everyone there at the party... i think it did wonders to my concept of celebrating non-birthdays instead of birthdays...

Abdullah: u were meant to leave!

Bhav: I've said my piece, thanks so much.

Davin: Traitor forever.. ha ha

DD: from right under my roof!

Hiro: Superman

Iskandar: Surprise

Jane: Gombak really.. Rajiv made it for mine :)

Loshini: Yay!

Nikhil: Sweetie.. muax muax

Rajiv: U made it.. he he he

Sarah: Thank u so much

Sanjana: The "single's" couch

Shida: All the way from cheras, sweeeet

Suet: Drunkard...

Sujan: Wassup nigga

Ujval: Your spirit was hovering over us..:)

Yamu: Akka!


****

Those weren't really comments bt wt the hell..

Thoughts abt turning 21: no difference really.. nt a cinderella transformation atleast
Surprises: They're pleasantly nice, altho the first couple of mins are crucial.. take a deep breath n handle it :)
Year ahead: Looks like a good year save some bad things
On friends: they have better memory compared to family.. well mine atleast

Just surprised.. all those who were here last year have taken a back seat, except the two constants... amazing.

24 June 2006

Tar

I put my hand on the uneven ridges of the tar. No one cared to make you even, only the multitude of traffic, of cold hard rubber pushing down on you is ever going to make you even.

Somehow I love you. I put my cheek against the very same ridges that have left my hand red and pock-marked. You hurt me, but the more you do the closer I want to get to you.

I want to dismantle you, I try to pry you apart, 'perhaps I can reconstruct you, even as Steven.' So i try, but instead I cut my fingers. They bleed because when they bleed they cry to you, asking you to understand, asking you to see what you are doing to them.

But you stay strong and wilfull. Qualities so much admired by yourself and yours truly and I still try. I want to taste you, so I put my tongue on your ridges, I press my lower lip on your uneveness, spread my arms all over you and press my body against yours.

Maybe if I stand up I will see what I claim to be mine is just one small part of your ever expanding self. That no matter how big I get, I could never hope to measure up to you.

But I don't. I hold on to the little that I have, hoping that someday soon you will see as I see. The world as a tiny home, filled with comfort and fortitude and love and not of the gaseous air you breathe.

The Collosus

You look into her eyes, clench her soul
Grab her arm, smother her lips
Play with her hair, hold her close
Speak what is on her mind
Only to leave her behind
To move onto the next colossus
You hold it
As if you want it
You kiss it
As if you love it
You measure
The depth of her eyes
The weight of her feelings
The capacity of her love
Feel her happiness
Her sadness
Her life
But move on to the next colossus
Just like you move on a new chapter
As the old one closes

Mansi Maheshwari
Copyright ©2006 Mansi Maheshwari

23 June 2006

Luna

Field trips meant the man could take shelter from tht rain and run inside their little shack and wait up till the children came and he shook his hand with each and everyone of the tiny little hands till he couldn't stand without feeling the faint jittering in his legs. He welcomed them with a huge fake smile that came right from deep within. He hated his life and he hated the man that he thought he had become. Foul and perverse, a life half lived in an insane desire to up those who were around him. SO the next morning as he wakes up from a busy dream, he stuffs the pockets of emptiness around his wife's body with left overs of his warm blanket. Her body like the filling of puffy blanket pastry. He tip toes to the ledge of the window and edges his toes past the ledge and tips his body into freefalling. Soldier Number One Out.

***

Out of sheer boredom she wanted to loose her virginity soon and the sooner it was lost the sooner she had one less thing to do. She wanted to loose it to the man her mother had brought home saying that he was her boyfriend, why they couldn't share eluded the young girl. She lies on the couch at night, drawing up images in her head of her nipples being suckled by that man, and him gently chewing the softness around her nipple. Her fingers were where she imagined his to be, and as she came she thrust her thumb forward, to warmth and wetness. And as she flings her hands upward in the air, she brings downwards a knife right into her navel. She believes she can feel the tip of the knife poking into the finger inside her vagina. She feels wet, this time with blood all around her. She closes her eyes as she brings the knife back upwards and brings it down on her trachea. She thought she'd die if she couldn't have him. That's as far as making a point as she could.

June

Amazing how friendster sometimes seems to be speaking for you with its dumbshit horoscope. Well i suppose if it was really so dumbshit i wouldn't be publishing it in here, would i now.

You'll be brimming with a heapin' helping of get-up-and-go, but it will be difficult to finalize anything. A lot of details are still up in the air, and the uncertainty around you will only grow for the next few days. Luckily, you have many new people and commitments to keep you busy. With the increase in activity in your life right now, concentration might be difficult to achieve and even more difficult to hold on to for any great length of time.

Ya, well.. it seems that, 'i dunno', might be the phrase of this month.. I realize now that if there was a month that i disliked, then June it would be. Most terms end then. It's been a very lunar month, for most of my life, waxing and waning, and changing and signifying so many things yet all these things always seem so little and small the next June.

Welcome June.

15 June 2006

Home

Long stick. Hauled over. Someone's back. At the end. A polka dotted bundle. Sings a whistle. Whistles a song.

Pweet weet Puweet I am going home soon. Yay Yay Yay.

Out jumps a rabbit.

- Home abound eh sweet richie?

'Someone' puts a bundle down to say

- ah yes missus.

- and where is this?

- the dusty road place.

-oh and who will u see when u get home?

- why? 'said Someone,' everyone I know.

- and i presume you like them all and miss them?

Someone steps back a take. Takes back a step.

- gee actually no.

-no yes?

-yes- I know.

- then why?

- To.. well, go home ofcourse. Everyone likes living out somewhere and then going home.

- that's true.

- Yea. Plus I've got holidays.

- Ah yea. Holiddays at home are fun. Where are you from though.. on your way to.. but from?

- Oh the house on the other end of the ocean.

- The ocean! You've seen it huh?!

- Ah yes, my 'place outside' home faces the sea.

- the sea? right there?! outside ur window!

- Yes.. and in the mornings I like to drink my whatever, looking through the window at the ocean and the sea and where they meet. My partner joins me, and we watch the waves as they come and go. Every morning.

- Oh and you have a love?!

- oh yes, kind, good looking and magical really.

- Magical huh. Never heard that one used before.

- But believe it.

- believing is seeing. seeing is believing. believing is seeing what we want to see. we want magical we see magical, we believe magical and we breathe magical, but magical i believe so i see. true, must be true.

- Yes, but anyways should be on my way then now. Home abound ahoy!

- well say hello the the friends for me hey!

- friends? oh yes friends, don't know any more where they are though.

- ah well, can always make more of them there huh.

- yea that's true.

- you have friends elsewhere though, don't you?

- yea got a couple. Gems really, jewells.

- magical first, precious stones next. Ocean view before, then amazing really this place your from.

- yes, but now i've got to be going home really.

- why though?

- it's the holidays. that's what a home is for isn't it, to go home during the holidays. If there were no home, then there wouldn't be any holidays.

- yea that's true. oh well...

the rabbit puts his ears up in a twist

-mmm well i should be on my way.

- well i guess have a good journey.

-yea, yea i will. I mean i should.

- and have a nice time there too.

- yea i should too. once i get there that is, journey's aren't too kind on me though.

-never on anybody really, and yea don't worry abt the friends and all that you'll be missing though.

- yea i won't.

- and ur magical partner too.. should be there still when you get back.

- yea yea true. should still be there. it's I who won't though.

- yea. but only because everyone says go home, and well we gotta go home when everyone says go home.

- yea but i do wonder who everyone, everybody is.

- well everybody could be anybody.

- and anybody could be everybody.

- yea and they say go home, it's the holidays...

- so i wil go home.

- do you want it though?

10 June 2006

Cookney

She smells of musty cloth. If a paradox was a living thing, then a paradox would smell like damp cloth that's dry. Her hair a wisty silver not often caught in sun, her eyes as bleak as a summer afternoon covered with heavy clouds of rain. She looks again in the mirror, watching as the lines of her face showed no signs of smoothing over.

She runs her finger over the creased edge in the mirror, the broken edge and watches while her finger pricks the sharp edge and gives way to soma. It starts like a lone pebble at the edge of a gigantic cliff, and threatens to stoop over and fall insignificantly into a deep widening gore in between a mountain.

She runs one creased finger vertically along the sharp edge, and as it reaches the joints of her palm, the end of the road, she presses harder on the lone sharp edge. By now, it's not sharp any more, somewhere it's lost its finer tip.. somewhere within her bleeding finger it lies dormant enjoying the movement of swelling blood.

She can feel the edge bluntly bouncing back against the bone of her finger, and presses it harder into her bone. She watches her face watching her finger bending backwards slowly resisting.

It is calm, it does not care. Pain doesn't feel anymore than hurt does. In a world where feelings are agreed meanings construed upon apparently common emotions, she does not think she's felt pain. What is it? She moans, within.

So old, lived so long, felt nothing called pain. Jealousy, carefully gaurded can inhabit 'pain'.
Fear when nurtured can become 'pain'. But what is 'pain' when pain itself has no comparision. What is the opposite of pain? Pain comes and then when it goes, what does it leave behind?
What if pain is a permanent existence for some of us, then would that mean that the rare ocassion of pain-less- ness that one can feel can be interpreted as pain itself?

She heaves a heavy sigh, desperate to know. She swiflty hastily and almost desperately brings her other hand forward. With speed that belies her age, cracks the first bone, her distal phalanges. People crack their fingers towards their palms, she cracked her fingers away.

It snapped and held loose, swaying loosely almost like a heavy coca palm in light afternoon breeze. She smiles. She cracks the second connection. The finger now stunted resembles an awkward lingam, a tiny willy, a midget finger.

As winds change, and as time flies, the finger is left to stand alone, to bleed in a solitary struggle to live and to mend and to cure. Futile day after day, after week, when it's rich creamy liquid running from the finger instead of red blood, she still feels no pain.

As she feels faint and feels tired and tempted to lie down and watch the cracks on the floorboards for a change, she feels no pain.

As the light draws on, paints the sky with vibrant orange and pink, her eyes close, having never felt pain.

The Lady Shallot

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, "
'Tis the fairy The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott
.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot; Italic
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows,"
said The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me,"
cried The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

GLOBAL VILLAGE: GLOBAL SPIRIT

If the world was a village of 100 people, there would be 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western hemisphere (North and South) and 8 Africans. Eighty would live in substandard housing, 70 would be illiterate, 50 would be malnourished, and 6 would own 59% of the world's wealth, and all 6 would be from the USA.

M RENNER CHIAPAS: THE FRUITS OF DESPAIR: THE WORLD WATCH READER

07 June 2006

Done

done with the exams... still have assignments and ta da.. i'm DONE for good.. :(

something abt leaving and coming and then leaving to come again that's threatening and scary

well nite out at a punjabi club planned

wonder how it will go in execution...

think think think...

01 June 2006

Why?

Because....

Because woman's work is never done
and is underpaid or unpaid or boring or repetitious and
we're the first to get fired and what we look like is more important
than what we do and if we get raped it's
our fault and if we get beaten we must have
provoked it and if we raise our voices we're
nagging bitches and if we enjoy sex we're
nymphos and if we don't we're frigid and if
we love women it's because we can't get a"real" man and if we ask our doctor too many
questions we're neurotic and/or pushy and if we expect childcare we're selfish and if we
stand up for our rights we're aggressive and"unfeminine" and if we don't we're typical
weak females and if we want to get married
we're out to trap a man and if we don't we're
unnatural and because we still can't get an adequate safe contraceptive but men can walk
on the moon and if we can't cope or don't
want a pregnancy we're made to feel
guilty about abortion and...for lots and lots
of other reasons we are part of the women's liberation movement.