Showing posts with label inspiration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inspiration. Show all posts

14 August 2012

The Arrogance of Youth - Homage to Oscar Wilde


Advice to the Ladies, especially those past 35 years of age.

Never flatter a man much younger than yourself unless you truly are in a relationship with him.

He does not understand that you feel confident and that age has bestowed you with endless generosity.

He will come to believe that he condescends to you; you, whose gifts of flattery he perceives as indications that you must be grateful for youth's attention.

Madam, you do yourself a disservice to entertain the belief that you may groom this young calf and shower him with the openness that you suspect dames of his generation are incapable of giving him freely (such is the arrogance of your age!)

Madam, stop!

Your kindness is not seen as such by him. He cannot fathom that you bloom and that experience has endowed you with inner peace, nor that the amassed joys of your years keep you from self-doubt, doubt that you merely affect from time to time to hint at modesty.

It does not even cross his mind that you are oft graced with pleasures beyond imagining and that you have none to envy. Youth and the conceit of his youth cloud his mind.

Your generosity is misplaced, Madam.

You are kind but know this, know that no insecurity of his, no, none of his inner doubts appear to him as shortcomings compared to those extra years which he is convinced he erases in you through his attention.

Such is the arrogance of youth.


18 January 2010

Creativity

Creativity is not a fad that one adopts and wears as a status symbol. No. It is grimy and self-sacrificing. It locks itself in isolation for days and emerges at whim. In a conversation, it embraces all possibilities, eluding the facts and the established knowledge du jour. It is often showered in ridicule. Often imprisoned.

Creativity is immersion in activities and products that most people can not understand. It is doing something that will often take the non-creative mind months, years, perhaps decades, to appreciate. It is often visionary.

True creativity transcends the current fashions and their popular appeal. True creativity does not cater for the masses. It is beyond the masses.

Creativity in no way seeks to make one cool or popular.
Popularity often results in the propagation of ideas and behaviours that echo established opinions and ideological desires or strategically rebels against them.
Fuck popularity.

Take a book, for example. The masses will make a book popular by consuming and devouring it.
If it is published, it will be to cater for the whims of the masses with the very purpose of making $$$money$$$.

Fuck the masses.

13 November 2009

Authenticism in Almodóvar's Todo Sobre Mi Madre



What does it mean to be real? To be genuine? This essay describes how Todo Sobre Mi Madre’s characters, as actors or actresses, either on stage or in real life, contribute to a discourse on authenticity. It focuses on the binary opposition between acting and being real, or between contrasting environments, and posits that Todo Sobre Mi Madre often deconstructs these oppositions to arrive at Almodóvar’s meaning on true authenticity. Todo Sobre Mi Madre (1999) constructs a pluralistic discourse on authenticity which is grounded not only in Almodóvar’s life experience but also on his recurrent ideologies on sexual fluidity and identity.

Beyond Stereotypes
Todo Sobre Mi Madre argues that authenticity rests on a person’s diversity and on what Fouz-Hernández and Expósito term “avoidance of stereotypes” (160). For example, it highlights the binary oppositions inherent in Rosa’s character to present an argument about her authenticity. Rosa is a beautiful young woman who as stereotypes would have it, could easily thrive in a worldly existence. Instead, much like a Jesus figure, she engages in social work, caring for marginal individuals like transvestite prostitutes. As exemplified by her selfless devotion to others, Rosa is a diligent nun with a heart of gold. But she nevertheless secretly breaks her vows by engaging in illicit sexual exchanges until she eventually falls pregnant to no other than transvestite, Lola. To multiply contradictions, Rosa is also a martyr figure who, after courageously carrying her pregnancy full term even despite an atmosphere of maternal disapproval, dies tragically, leaving behind what in Franco’s days would be called a sinful, HIV ridden body. Rosa is therefore painted as a fluid character. Her multiple facets run contrary to expectations. For example, her naivety vis-a-vis Lola remains perplexing given her regular exposure to transgender prostitutes and therefore to the worldlier side of life.

Penelope Cruz as Rosa

What is to make of such complexity in a single individual if only that it informs the viewer of the multi-dimensional nature of authenticity? As the narrative would have it, Rosa is also the love child who, following her death, is fondly mourned by all. This elevates Rosa to saintly status on the grounds that she transcended both morality and sexuality. According to Almodóvar then, Rosa’s authenticity results from the diversity of her character and the deconstruction of dichotomies whether these imply naivety/worldliness, innocence/depth or even beauty/disease and finally, the ubiquitous saint/whore. On broader terms, this non-stereotypical authenticity mirrors El Deseo’s production values “to push the boundaries of genre” (Triana-Toribio 158).

Acting Out Inner Desires
Todo Sobre Mi Madre suggests that often, playing a role, far from alienating an individual from who they really are, can ultimately liberate them, drawing them to a closer understanding of their own desires or their true nature. As evidenced by close ups of Manuela watching A Street Car Named Desire, the aggrieved mother is deeply moved with Stella’s character. Manuela’s obsession with Stella is attributed to the parallels she recognises between the stage character and her own experience with Esteban’s father. Manuela’s performance as Stella therefore becomes only natural and it attracts positive feedback precisely because it is heartfelt. Performances are portrayed as tools for catharsis rather than for imposture.


During one stage scene, we watch the new Stella cry intensely from labor pains. The narrative’s focus on that moment of Manuela’s performance can be read as a suggestion that her pain on stage echoes her real life grief and her longing desire to give birth again to her son. In other words, it infers that her performance has become a vehicle for her unexpressed desire to regain her lost son. This is further evidenced by Manuela’s later eagerness to adopt the new little Esteban and take him with her to Madrid. Overall, Todo Sobre Mi Madre's performances can be read as therapeutic means of tapping into one’s true nature and desires. In what Garlinger cautiously refers to as “an identification with women on the part of a gay director” (Garlinger 120), this existence by proxy may well be familiar to Almodóvar. The director has often focused on women who are over represented in his films (D’Lugo, 29, 63). Just as Manuela identifies with Stella and vocalises through Stella, Todo Sobre Mi Madre's director may find personal expression and authenticity through the women in his films.

Resembling Your Dream of Yourself
According to Almodóvar, being true to your own self, having self-integrity is the key to true authenticity. On the surface, Agrado and Lola’s transgender behaviours could be read as shallow. That is, they both recall the stereotypical drag queens that assume their new sexuality through excess, show and appearance. This reading would agree with Spanish film scholars who have often attacked Almodóvar for what they saw in his films as “shallow character development” (D’Lugo 9). But as claimed by Agrado: “A woman is authentic only in so far as she resembles her dream of herself. Todo Sobre Mi Madre indicates that what makes a person real is not their body but their sentiment (Garlinger 123), what is inside of them. Agrado’s stage performance is a camp discourse but far from being a shallow parody of gay culture, it is a strong affirmation of the authenticity of gay sentiments and the authenticity of being gay.

The refreshing and honest Agrado

Agrado is saying that she has physically transformed herself not because she is essentially a fake but because what is inside of her longed to find form and expression. In his discourse on authenticity, Almodóvar also “draws attention to the construction of the body” (Fouz-Hernández & Expósito 159). By highlighting her highly engineered body, Agrado not only alludes to her own construction but also to the construction of all women. All women, not only the men who desire to be them, are more or less subject to highly demanding aesthetic rules. The efforts required to attain feminine ideals render women no less fabricated than the men who desire the female form. By equating her efforts to those of other women, Agrado becomes as authentic as any of them.

Todo Sobre Mi Madre
's narrative also indicates that true authenticity is not achieved by merely projecting a cohesive self to others. Rosa’s mum is an example of a person who wishes to project an idea of herself to others and who in fact falls short of this image. As a morally self-righteous, cynical individual, Rosa’s mum scorns her daughter’s sexual affair and refuses to have anything to do with prostitutes or other marginal individuals. For example, she will not suffer a transvestite holding her grandchild, let alone endorse the reality that such a marginal figure is actually the child’s father.

Lola, Rosa and Manuela's common lover

Yet, for all her claims of propriety as mother and grandmother, Rosa’s mum is a deceitful individual. She is an artist who forges work and passes them as real. What makes her inauthentic is her inability to openly acknowledge her own fabrications: Rosa’s mum truly believes that she is a morally upright individual. Yet another way in which the narrative questions her authenticity is in her desire to hide that her grandson is HIV positive. This dissimulation of truth for safeguarding one’s reputation as a proper citizen of the world contrasts sharply with Agrado’s shameless revelation of her own construction. It renders Rosa’s mum inauthentic.

On Nationalism...
In terms of nationalism, the film suggests that authenticity within a person’s background is not lessened by the fluidity of their homes and their migration across different worlds. To illustrate this, Todo Sobre Mi Madre highlights several migrations across opposing worlds. There is Manuela, a downtrodden mother fleeing underground Barcelona to raise a child and establish a respected, professional status in Madrid. There is Manuela’s return to underground Barcelona to find her husband following Esteban’s death. It is followed by another journey to Madrid to raise a substitute son away from his prejudiced grandmother. These migrations illustrate the relative importance of each place in shaping Manuela’s character. Madrid sees Manuela evolve into a self-sufficient career women and mother but Barcelona is the setting where she finds joy and solidarity among friends. The underground world, both on and off the stage, also plays an important part in her personal development including her reconciliation with her husband. Madrid and Barcelona while representing opposite realms nevertheless both contribute to Manuela’s identity. The film’s argument is that people do not just originate from a single place or environment, nor can they claim a single socio economic background that will mark them for life but rather, people can in fact be shaped and evolve in largely disparate worlds each contributing to their character and their authenticity.

This argument on authentic identity across disparate worlds reflects Almodóvar’s journeys both in life and in cinema. Like Manuela, the director emerged from humble beginnings in a Manchegan village which saw him migrate to Caceres in La Mancha and then onto Madrid where he taught himself film making (D’Lugo 15). All these places have inflected upon the director’s way of seeing things and representing them on screen. For example, he claims “My sister had a fashion design shop in Extramadura, and that world stayed with me” (D’Lugo 5). Almodóvar’s migration as director is equally evoked. Where once the stringent moral laws of the 70s made Barcelona’s underground film festivals the few places where Almodóvar could screen his short films (D’ Lugo 15), today the director has arisen “from a marginal figure within a marginal film culture to international prominence” (D’Lugo 4).


Works Consulted:

Todo Sobre Mi Madre. Dir. Pedro Almodóvar, El Deseo S.A., 1999.

D’Lugo, Marvin. Pedro Almodóvar. Springfield, Ill: University of Illinois Press, 2006.

Fouz-Hernández, Santiago and Expósito, Alfredo Martínez. Live Flesh: The Male Body in Contemporary Spanish Cinema. London, UK:I.B. Tauris, 2007.

Garlinger, Patrick Paul. All About Agrado, or the Sincerity of Camp in Almodóvar’s Todo Sobre Mi Madre. Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies, 5.1(2004): 117-134.

Triana-Tiribio, Nuria. Journeys of El Deseo Between the Nation and the Transnational in Spanish Cinema. Studies in Hispanic Cinema, 4.3(2007): 151-163.

I wrote this essay as part of a European Film course.

18 October 2009

Einstein and the Meaning of Success

One should guard against preaching to young people success in the customary form as the main aim in life. The most important motive for work in school and in life is pleasure in work, pleasure in its result, and the knowledge of the value of the result to the community. - Albert Einstein

Good old Einstein. Well, he said it.

What is this perfectly ambiguous term we call success anyway? Success in different societies means so many different things. Having many children in some African and Middle Eastern cultures is a form of success. Having a high paying job, a large house and being able to travel regularly for leisure is a symbol of success in most Western societies. Smaller circles also have their own measures. Featuring as a lead in a high grossing film is the first sign of success in Hollywood. Getting a promotion is a sign of success in most organisations.

This idea of success is a pain in the ass. So often I think, it forces us to give away our lives and spend effort on things that we believe are prized by other people, in an attempt to impress them or even just to confirm to ourselves that our life has been well spent. These things we eventually acquire or give ourselves cancers and heart attacks acquiring may have nothing to do with what we truly want. But they are worth pursuing either because advertisers tell us that they are worthwhile, or because our family tell us nothing else will do or because we feel guilt in relation to those self-imposed goals that elude us, or shame in relation to other people, if we do not pursue these aims.

I've had plenty of success.
Well, that depends on what you mean by success.
I've had wealth. I've owned property. I've had boundless travel experiences. I've had a degree of power and responsibility in a well paid job. I've had a stable and happy marriage.
So I suppose in Western terms, I've had plenty of that thing called success.

But I'm learning. Slowly. I think success for me is moments. Moments when I feel free and my own person. Moments when I love or feel loved. Moments when I complete a gym workout and feel fucking awesome about myself. Moments when I find self-expression in an idiotic Facebook status or rave about my obscure ideas in an equally obscure blog called Les Nuits Masquées. Moments when I know I'm going to publish my novel, a creation of my very own that no one else could have written and that has been born of my own mind and no one else's. Moments when I enjoy tasting and experiencing new food. Success for me is being able to tell someone to piss off when they are obviously out of line rather than being servile to them and compromising my own integrity. Success is making my own choices.

I want to call this thing, "contentment", not success.

Contentment for me is those moments when I wake up and recognise that the commonly known concept called success is an elusive, virtual reality. It's a commodity created to wade through existence and obtain some measure of self-satisfaction for our progress in this lifespan. It's true. We fabricate our own reality about what success means because we are doomed to the anxiety of existentialism. We need to fill our lives with some meaning. We need a benchmark without which we fall apart anguished by this overwhelming meaninglessness. Without which we believe we would feel useless. Who wants to 'just live'? No, that would be too frightening. Life must have a purpose. And the only way we know we have reached that purpose is to create a measure, the measure of success.

But life is not about success. It's about enjoyment. And Einstein was right.

Enjoy nature. Enjoy learning. Enjoy creating. Enjoy art. Enjoy helping others. Enjoy dancing. Enjoy sex. Enjoy food, love and healthy competition.

Success comes in those moments.

1 September 2009

Emilie Jolie: Le Hérisson - English Translation


From the age of three to four, I had a turntable with a red plastic case that I'd use to play records all day long. One of my earliest memories is a Philippe Chatel's children musical called "Emilie Jolie" that I'd listen to continuously until I knew the words by heart. I was not gifted with blonde locks and I did not have blue eyes like the lovely Emilie but as with many little French girls, I identified with her.

Emilie is basically this little girl who can't sleep at night because she finds herself all alone while her parents are out and she is terrified of the dark. I could readily identify with that. No sooner were the lights out that I had to fight the horrible products of an overactive imagination.

The narration is in third person with the narrator also directly interacting with Emilie as she flips through this book merging with each page's content into a magical universe. It's similar to Mary Poppins where the children enter into the park after leaping into one of the chalk drawings but in this case, Emilie is both inside the book and outside it, since she can still flip the pages. For each page, she meets fantastic characters each with a story and a personal song.


The first turning point of the story is the meeting with a witch.

"Il y a une sorciere dans cette histoire?" (Is there a witch in this story?) asks Emilie.
"Dans tous les comtes, il y a une sorciere et un prince charmant." (In every tale, there is a witch and a Prince charming) assures the narrator.

The witch's song is one of the highlights of the story. It is sung in the original musical by famous French singer, Françoise Hardy. She laments that she's been cruel and wicked, that being a witch has been to her detriment and she wishes someone could love her so that she could cease being a witch. Interesting psychology going on here and I can tell you that Emilie Jolie is a musical filled with double meanings so that adults along with children can both enjoy it. It's probably as deep as The Little Prince and when it ends, Philippe Chatel's last words have haunted me up to this day:

" Faites que le rêve dévore votre vie, Afin que la vie ne dévore pas votre rêve . "

basically,
Let your dream consume your life.
Such that life may not consume your dream...


It is a beautiful ending because it reminds the main character, Emilie along with every other child, to grow up honouring their dreams and their imagination. As a child, I did not understand the quote very well but as an adult today, I can see how easy it is to forget one's dreams and to let life, adult life with its adult concerns, its materialistic outlook and other "matters of consequence" take precedence over joyful fantasies. I'm determined not to let it.

Personally, I believe you can expect that level of depth from most French children's tales.

After the meeting with the witch there follows a quest to find a Prince Charming who will magically turn the witch into a kind, loving princess. Emilie Jolie must flip each page of her book and encounter one character after another asking each if they have at all seen Prince Charming. Of course none of them have but we are treated to their song nevertheless and learn a little bit about each one of them. Each character's song is well written and most are enjoyable.

My personal favourite as a child and also today, is "La Chanson du hérisson " (The Porcupine's song). Who has not met a porcupine? A depressed person who sees life through a negative lens and who only wants proof that they are worthy of love. It is easy to be rebuffed (prickled?) by their negativity and it often requires courage to overcome their rejecting ways and give them the proof they ache for. This is the lesson that this song teaches.


La Chanson du Hérisson - Lyrics by Philippe Chatel with my English translation

Refrain:
Oh, qu'est-ce qui pique, ce hérisson
Oh, qu'elle est triste sa chanson
Oh, qu'est-ce qui pique, ce hérisson
Oh, qu'elle est triste sa chanson
Chorus:
Oh, how he prickles, this porcupine,
Oh, how sad is his song.
Oh, how he prickles, this porcupine
Oh, how sad is his song.


C'est un hérisson qui piquait, qui piquait
Et qui voulait qu'on l'caresse, resse, resse
On l' caressait pas, pas, pas, pas, pas
Non pas parce qu'il piquait pas, mais mais parce qu'il piquait
It was a porcupine that prickled, that prickled
And who wanted to be caressed,ressed,ressed
Caressed he was not, not, not, not, not
Not because he didn't prickle, but because he prickled


(Repeat Chorus)

Le hérisson:
Quelle est la fée dans ce livre
Qui me donn'ra l'envie d'vivre
Quelle est la petite fille aux yeux bleus
Qui va m'rendre heureux
The Porcupine:
Who is the fairy in this book
Who'll give me the desire t'live
Who is the little girl with the blue eyes
Who'll make me happy


Emilie:
Moi, je ne vois que moi
Il n'y a que moi
Dans ce livre là
Moi, je ne vois que moi
Il n'y a que moi
Dans ce livre là,la
la la la...
Emilie:
Me, I see only me
There is only me
In this book
Me, I see only me
There is only me
In this book
- I actually love this part because it has two meanings. In the first instance, Emilie is answering the porcupine's question, acknowledging that she is the only one who can help him. But at the same time, on a broader scale, she expresses her realisation that her book journey is solitary and that everything so far, has been a product of her imagination, or a reflection of herself. I love this.

Le conteur:
Emilie est allée caresser le hérisson !
Narrator:
Emilie has gone to caress the porcupine!


Emilie:
Elle n'est plus triste, cette chanson
J'ai caressé le hérisson
Emilie:
This song is no longer sad
I have caressed the porcupine


Chœurs:
Il n'est plus triste, le hérisson
Elle a caressé la chanson !
Chorus:
He is no longer sad, the porcupine
She has caressed the song!
(a bit of kiddish humour there....)

Le conteur:
Mais non, le hérisson
Narrator:
No, [she means] the porcupine...


Chœurs:
Mais non, le hérisson !
Chorus:
No, the porcupine!




Here's the song, in case you want to sing along!

11 July 2009

Le Monde est Stone - English Translation


I've loved this song since I was 11.
Garou sings it pretty well. But I can't find the female vocals I liked...and no it wasn't Celine Dion's version.
Le Monde est Stone - sung by Garou

Interesting angle on the Garou video clip. I never interpreted the song as relating to a reaction to world conflict and the devastating effect of war. Although it's probably very suited I suppose. Personally, I saw it more as a person's inner struggle to deal with their different outlook on existence, their sense of alienation and feeling out of touch with everything that other people prize. I read it more as a sort of nihilist outlook compounded by a dread for life, a thirst for feeling, perhaps underlined by the accusative "the world is stone", the world is rock hard and unfeeling perhaps. Also read it as having an existentialist theme and a message about the profound meaninglessness of everything. That sort of thing.

One great song that I still very much love.
So here are the publically available French lyrics with my own English translation.


Le Monde est Stone / The World is Stone

J'ai la tête qui éclate
J'voudrais seulement dormir
M'étendre sur l'asphalte
Et me laisser mourir

I've a head about to burst
I'd like only to sleep
To stretch myself on the asphalt
And let myself die


Stone
Le monde est stone
Je cherche le soleil
Au milieu de la nuit
J'sais pas si c'est la Terre
Qui tourne à l'envers
Ou bien si c'est moi
Qui m'fait du cinéma
Qui m'fait mon cinéma

Stone
The world is stone
I'm looking for the sun
In the middle of the night
Dunno if it's the Earth
That's spinning in reverse
Or if it's me
Making myself some cinema (expression, actually means: dramatising things)
Making myself my own cinema



J'ai plus envie d'me battre
J'ai plus envie d'courir
Comme tous ces automates
Qui bâtissent des empires
Que le vent peut détruire
Comme des châteaux de cartes

I no longer want to fight,
I no longer want to run,
Like all those automatons
Who build empires
That the wind can destroy
Like castles made of cards



Stone
Le monde est stone
Je cherche le soleil
Au milieu de la nuit


Stone
The world is stone
I'm looking for the sun
In the middle of the night



Laissez moi me débattre
Venez pas m'secourir
Venez plutôt m'abattre
Pour m'empêcher d'souffrir
J'ai la tête qui éclate
J'voudrais seulement dormir
M'étendre sur l'asphalte
Et me laisser mourir


Let me struggle (Note: talking to many people)
Don't come and rescue me
But rather, come finish me off
To prevent me from suffering
I've a head about to burst
I'd like only to sleep
To stretch myself on the asphalt
And let myself die.

14 May 2009

Dr. X

I've been involved in some stalking lately.

I'm stalking a lecturer in fact. Mind you, it's only mild, harmless stalking. The Google type.

Besides, this lecturer, he maintains a blog. On Blogger that is.
He's also conveniently the sole person with that good name on Facebook and Twitter. He even has his own web page.

So you see his profiles are all very public and I guess you could coin my stalking 'research'.

It begs the question though, who would do that? Stalk their own lecturer, I mean. Unless they were infatuated...
Please believe me, I'm not. Not a single attraction there. No, it's something else altogether. I've a one track mind about a novella concept that I've toyed with for over a year. And well...let me explain.

I have my reason for being interested in this guy.

What fascinates me is his psychology research interests.
They are frighteningly similar to mine: the neuroscience of social behavior, studies on intergroup relations and prejudice, psychophysiology of emotions... It's disturbing. Disturbing it is, because in addition to this similarity, according to his blog, he seems to show a vivid interest in film analysis, music [lyrics] and culture. It aroused my curiosity instantly because these are the two areas that I've focused on in the last 5 years: film studies and psychology. Meanwhile, because of my background, I have also had an almost personal (arrogant) interest in culture and intergroup relations. Finally in my blog, I often present lyrics and lyrics translations. So overall, my intuitive gut feel when I viewed his blog, is that we must share a common outlook on the world, at least in some ways. I realise he's much more educated and that his blog is a wealth of well integrated research on many subjects that I'm mostly ignorant about. Still, I maintain that there are common interests.

As an aside, the combination film/psychology is not unusual, not only in terms of personal interests but also in the creative industry.
For example, I've read of many successful writers and directors who had studied psychology (note the distinction: they are psychology graduates, not 'psychologists'). The french thriller "Hidden" was written by psychology graduate Michael Haneke. And beyond this, film analysis does borrow from psychoanalysis.

I'm digressing. So this lecturer shares some of my interests. So what. This similarity shouldn't be given salience. I mean many people also like cinema and music so why shouldn't any old social neuroscientist also enjoy watching and analysing film and posting music lyrics? What's so curious about them if they do?

Why, you ask? Because this lecturer gave me full marks in my psychophysiology proposal. That's the scary proposal I wrote recently and which I mention here. This guy gave me full marks for a 40% third year psychology assignment. Far out, I've never had that happen to me. How does that happen?

I'm modest but still, I honestly don't think it was the best work I ever did. Ok, I liked it, but that's only because I love that research subject, I still gasped when I saw my mark and wondered whether there had been an oversight. Maybe because I have mildly low self-esteem, I've been attributing the mark to something else (alongside my hard work). I think, having considered everything, that he must have really liked the proposal, that it struck a common chord there and that he felt good (understood?) reading it. Of course he did, it's the type of work he enjoys and it was well written, I might add. I noticed he made a mention in happy red (red ink can often look angry... but that was happy red) that his lab was looking at similar issues. I was excited to know that. Very excited.

If, one day, I need professional feedback for the concepts in my novella, I will turn to him. I know he would be thrilled. He likes science fiction. Right now, though, I'm too shy. So I prefer to remain incognito for a while.

Maybe I could even make him into a character in my novella.
I'll call him Dr. X.

In one of his Blog posts, my lecturer laments the lack of academic references to his research papers by researchers whose work he values and who he wishes would also find interest in his own material. He communicates that he often feels that he doesn't exist and that all the work he has done in the last 15 years has been for nothing.

That post was written last year so hopefully he got over those dark thoughts since then. Either way, it made me very sad. I could not reconcile that someone whose professional work and values I put on the highest pedestal, could somehow feel, even in a moment of online melancholy, that they didn't exist.

Anyway Dr. X, don't worry. I'll make you eternal.

11 January 2008

Pretty Frocks for Summer and Fall 2008

Forgive me, I'm not equipped with a fashion vocabulary. Yet, I sense things.

Right now, what has me most inspired are those initial scenes from the film, Atonement.



I want to linger in the evanescent, smokey essence of a summer afternoon. I want to dull about in the gardens of an English mansion. To play with light, sheer fabrics that beg to be ripped. I love the dashing yet soft spoken quality of men's clothing. Creams, various shades of browns, pale mustard, greens.


Yes, that near transparent blouse clinging to wet skin, that little diamond hairclip, those well filled dark eyebrows...

The insolence of that emerald silk gown....



I want wavy locks in chocolate or reddish brown. Pale skin breathing through sheer pastels in creams and roses. Effortless sylphlike waists, free of belts. Nude backs. Plenty of nude back. And halter necks.

Brown boots. Jodhpurs. That last scene from the Illusionist awakened a desire for jodhpurs. To wear with dramatic, crisp white shirts with puffed sleeves and fancy cuff details.

Office wear in cream and white layering.

White everything.

Understatements.

19 November 2007

The Meaning of Death

"Man...expresses himself primarily by his action...But this action lacks unity, that is, meaning, until it has been completed...
In a word, so long as he has a future, that is, an unknown quantity, man is unexpressed.

It is therefore absolutely necessary to die, because, so long as we live, we have no meaning...Death effects an instantaneous montage of our lives; that is, it chooses the truly meaningful moments (which are no longer modifiable by other possibly contrary or incoherent moments) and puts them in a sequence, transforming an infinite, unstable and uncertain - and therefore linguistically not describable - present into a clear, stable, certain, and therefore easily describable past.... It is only thanks to death that our life serves us to express ourselves.

Editing therefore performs on the material of the film...the operations that death performs on life."

- Pier Paolo Pasolini, film director

4 October 2007

The Selfish Creator

"Since creativity does demand time and energy,
and since Muses are jealous mistresses
whose speech cannot be timetabled,
devotees must put their work before all else,
including social obligations,
personal relationships and the needs of others.
Insufficient selfisheness has compromised more than one talent."


- Jock Abra (Professor of Psychology)

25 August 2007

Advice from a Failure

I discovered this inspirational passage while browsing through the December 2006 archives in Sat Purkh's blog. It's so beautiful to contemplate, and so I hope the owner will not mind me reproducing it here.


Advice from a Failure

You do not need to be loved—not at the cost of yourself.
The single relationship that is truly central in a life is a relationship with your self. It is rewarding to find someone you like, but essential to like yourself.
It is quickening to recognize that someone is a good and decent human being, but it is indispensable to view your own self that way.
It is a delight to discover people who are worthy of respect, admiration and love, but it is vital to believe yourself deserving of respect, admiration and love, for you cannot live in someone else.
Of all the people that you will ever know in a lifetime, you are the only one that you will never lose or leave.
To the question of your life, you’re the answer, and to the problems of your life, you’re the solution. –Jo Coudert

6 August 2007

Mélissa Theuriau and Jamel Debouzze

Brangelina is so passé.

The couple that has me most inspired right now is French comedian/actor Jamel Debouzze and French journalist Mélissa Theuriau. YES, THE Mélissa Theuriau. You read right.

So guys, you can stop drooling over the gorgeous Mélissa in YouTube: she is taken.
And not by anyone let me tell you.

Considering the combined talent of these two, I'm not sure who to be most jealous of...

Mélissa was recently voted most sexiest women of 2007 by FHM magazine. Only 28 years old and she's got a Master degree in Audiovisual Journalism and several years experience as a reporter on French television. Mélissa now hosts a travel show on French channel M6. Here is her official French website.



And what can I say about Jamel? Eloquent yet shockingly funny, fun yet deep, intelligent, socially perceptive and HOT....I totally admire this guy. Apart from the fact that I can't get anough of his show "100% Debouzze", I have to bow down to someone who let neither his poor childhood in Trappes nor the loss of an arm following a train accident early in his life, get in the way of his spirit.

27 July 2007

Stabbed

I forgot to mention this but the other night, I dreamt that someone, I'm not sure who, stabbed me in the chest (just below the sternum to be exact) with a pair of kraft scissors. I was in my togs swimming when suddenly I looked down to see a pair of spread out handles dangling out of my bleeding torso. I didn't feel pain because the blades were not in too deep. As I extracted the two blades, with my right hand (I'm left handed, but I tend to handle scissors with my right hand, long story) I was very careful not to squeeze the handles together as this would only have brought the blades together within my chest and caused more damage. However much as I tried, I failed in avoiding friction between the blades. When I did finally remove the pair of scissors from my chest, the blood oozed out of two 0.5 inch holes and the skin separating those two holes had been pinched and nearly ripped.

It was fascinating.

I used an online dictionary to decipher this dream by typing the words "scissors" and "stab" in the search box provided. Apparently I am overly suspicious and fear being betrayed. Also recently, an event has caused me to feel that people are 'stabbing me in the back (chest)'. The scissors denote the tendency I have for cutting people out of my life.
Putting the two metaphors together, it would appear that I may be consciously isolating myself from other people out of fear of getting hurt and that it is my suspicious nature that feeds this fear.

Who needs psychology when you have a dream book.

19 February 2007

Bittersweet

Last night I was feeling rather distraught. You see, I had just completed Richard Ellman's excellent biography of Oscar Wilde which, apart from re-emphasising the injustice and meanness that exist in this world, had reduced me to a teary mess. I consumed no less than 16 Kleenex tissues, blowing my nose furiously as if I were in Paris, in 1900, attending Wilde's funeral. The thought of this wonderful writer, once known to be so generous to his own friends, being abandoned, ruined by his trial, broken by his cruel 2 year sentence, subjected to the ostracism that followed his imprisonment and then spending his last days as a desperately lonely and penniless vagrant, sucked me into despair.

In the end I realised that putting aside his talent and tumultuous affairs, Oscar Wilde's life recalls the story of every man whose living art, or individuality is punished by society. It is the story of every person abused by their so called friends and cast aside when they are no longer of any use. I read De Profundis and once again broke down.

***************************

In New Zealand, there is a lovely chocolate bar called Perkynana. It's a banana flavoured chewy bar coated in milk chocolate although to me, it tastes more like pineapple than banana. Here is a picture of it, in all it's glory:

Makes me sigh just to gawk at this picture.

I have only visited New Zealand twice but each time, I remember stocking up on Cadbury Perkynanas. Only about 80cents per bar.
A small price to pay for a delicious sweet. One of my favourites by far.

I've often wondered why Australia doesn't import Perkynanas. It's not as if New Zealand is very far. Not as if Cadbury products are an exotic specialty that would require years of marketing to attract loyal consumers within Australia. But after years of waiting, I fear that neither the shelves of our Coles or Woolies supermarkets will ever be graced by arrays of Perkynanas in their delicate yellow wrappers. Why isn't anyone interested in importing Perkynanas????

It looked as if someone had finally heard my prayers. The other day, in town, I walked past a confectionery store which proudly imports a myriad of hard to find international sweets, catering for all those nostalgic expats. In this store which I will not name, lest I find myself making scurrilous remarks, you can even find Hershey bars and Peanut Butter bars from the US and all manner of Sherbety sweets from England. And behold, what do you think I saw? Newly imported Perkynanas!! Oh goodie! This was too good to be true. I was already rolling up my sleeves ready to stock up for the next 3 years. "But now, do get a grip Laura", I said, taking hold of myself, "and take some time to consider this extravagant folly that will surely be the cause of your ruin." For how much do you think those bastards charged for one miserable Perkynana?? $3.50!!!! That's right, I'm not kidding. $3.50 for one STINKING Perkynana!!! It was nothing short of outrageous, ripping off the honest public in such a shameless manner. Bandits! Well they could shove their Perkynanas you know where, I thought as I stormed out of the store with an offended sniff.

I will have to seriously consider importing them myself. Perhaps I could purchase a flight ticket to New Zealand some time, build my Cadbury connections, install a commercial fridge in my backyard...

17 February 2007

Kaali, Le Temps

Toi, danseuse immonde qui humilie l’homme déchu
La poudre de sang sillone, ton frond nu
L’éclat de tes seins luisants
S’offusque d’un collier cadavreux

Toi qui consummes l’offrande en deuil, Re-Vêtue
De son sari blanc,
Ton règne méconnu
Demeure effrayant

Tes mèches enflammées, oh, hirsute créature
Encadre la rage baveuse de ton visage enfièvrée
Ton rire déchire la nuit,
   Rompant les silences hypocrites
Ainsi se dresse l’esprit guerrier,
   Insolite
Que seul les vérités
Voudront appaiser.

Oh toi, reine noire, némésis assoiffée
Entends tu, par le gouffre òu gémissent les échos
Les mortels lassés
De ton trident d’acier.

Ni femme, Ni demon,
Mais mère -
Mère ensanglantée, Mère rageuse,
Celui qui te suit
N’a de sort
Ni la peur, Ni la mort.

Toi qui a comme nom
Ce cycle du temps qui nous défi
Ta transe envoutante mène aux chemins exquis
Ou le monde, enfin,
Connait son destin.

Oh celle qui ne prétends
Nulles vertues, Nulles graces,
Seul celui qui devine
Sage tes Exces
   Ton amour, reconnait.


Laura Bingham
2007 Tous droits réservés