Saturday, May 2, 2009

The Origin Of Love [the song, the poem, thoughts etc.]

I watched John C. Mitchell's Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001) again last week and it somehow sent me on a craze (as some of you know already!) and I decided to spread to craze, or at least, write about the The Origin of Love, for those who don't know it. I discovered The Origin of Love (the poem) back in 2002, when I was in my first year in India and Reena had sent me a letter with the lyrics in it because we used to send each other very long letters at the time! I was in-fact thrilled by the poem, which got me to see the film. [As an aside, I am glad to say that watching Hedwig after all these years that included two years of film-studies, film-theory and some film-making, I still found the film astoundingly wonderful! It's a master-piece!]

The Origin of Love is based on Aristophanes' speech in Plato's Symposium (yeah, the one where they are all drunk and having a party and talking about love between men amongst others!) Stephen Trask both composed the music and wrote the lyrics, and in my opinion, there has never been such a powerful rendition of (the origin of) love. The way love itself is captured by the end of the song is simply out-of-this-world, so I shall not try to describe it. Instead, I shall leave you here with the poem itself, and I long hesitated between posting the audio track or the video from the film or Rufus Wainright's outstanding cover of the song; and I decided to go for the video from the film. My students keep saying that they are a "visual" generation, so I shall go by that! Oh, and for those who haven't figured out the hew header to the blog, it may just give you some insight into why it's there!

Happy Aesthetic Experience:

When the earth was still flat,
And the clouds made of fire,
And mountains stretched up to the sky,
Sometimes higher,
Folks roamed the earth
Like big rolling kegs.
They had two sets of arms.
They had two sets of legs.
They had two faces peering
Out of one giant head
So they could watch all around them
As they talked; while they read.
And they never knew nothing of love.
It was before the origin of love.

The origin of love

And there were three sexes then,
One that looked like two men
Glued up back to back,
Called the children of the sun.
And similar in shape and girth
Were the children of the earth.
They looked like two girls
Rolled up in one.
And the children of the moon
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon.
They were part sun, part earth
Part daughter, part son.

The origin of love

Now the gods grew quite scared
Of our strength and defiance
And Thor said,
"I'm gonna kill them all
With my hammer,
Like I killed the giants."
And Zeus said, "No,
You better let me
Use my lightening, like scissors,
Like I cut the legs off the whales
And dinosaurs into lizards."
Then he grabbed up some bolts
And he let out a laugh,
Said, "I'll split them right down the middle.
Gonna cut them right up in half."
And then storm clouds gathered above
Into great balls of fire

And then fire shot down
From the sky in bolts
Like shining blades
Of a knife.
And it ripped
Right through the flesh
Of the children of the sun
And the moon
And the earth.
And some Indian god
Sewed the wound up into a hole,
Pulled it round to our belly
To remind us of the price we pay.
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile
Gathered up a big storm
To blow a hurricane,
To scatter us away,
In a flood of wind and rain,
And a sea of tidal waves,
To wash us all away,
And if we don't behave
They'll cut us down again
And we'll be hopping round on one foot
And looking through one eye.

Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That's the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.
So we wrapped our arms around each other,
Trying to shove ourselves back together.
We were making love,
Making love.
It was a cold dark evening,
Such a long time ago,
When by the mighty hand of Jove,
It was the sad story
How we became
Lonely two-legged creatures,
It's the story of
The origin of love.
That's the origin of love


Thursday, April 30, 2009

What He Meant By 'A Broken Heart' [fiction fragment]

"He broke my heart" he said, "In a million little pieces."

Heads lopped down necks like drops of melting cream; lips stretched to the sides colliding with cheeks but the teeth remained hidden; others merged their eye-brows on the top of their nose, making way for a third-eye; his own mum took a deep breath and licked her lips like bitter lollipop; his best friend didn't adhere to the awkward silence and shot:

"Well, your crystal heart is still here sweetie. Awwww... Here, feel it, beating, in good shape."

The others joined in: "Awww... Give it time, yes, give it time! Men are bastards in any case!"

What he couldn't say and what formed itself as a silenced cancerous lump in his throat was that it was not so much about his heart. The latter was indeed still there, in one piece, blistering like red coal. But it was his spirit that was broken-- his optimism, the joys of waking up to a new day: the feel of the pillow cover against his cheeks, the swooning aroma of green tea in his nostrils, the buckling sound of his belt with a last glance at the mirror...

No, his heart was not a crystal piece that was shattered and would grotesquely be glued back together. No... It was his spirit that had whiled away, in a million little pieces, like invisible forsaken ashes to the whims of the gray winds.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The White Wall [a poem]

I closed my eyes and looked at the white wall.
It sunbathed in light; ten feet tall.
The two sides: eighteen meters long;
It stood: bright, robust, proud, strong!

I was angry at the white wall.
Cat-instinct, bundled-up in a squall.
I wish I could jump over, besoil it,
I desired black blood that I could spit.

I saw a huge stain on the white wall,
A shapeless loathsome spot, a grotesque mole:
Child's imagination? Poetic fancy? Rage? Ire?
I blotched a graffiti of miff, filth, choler, mire.

Monday, April 27, 2009

A Poem [that doesn't have a title]

The reason why I didn't really fill up this space over the past week is that I did not want to impose more rant upon you. It's been an eventful, hard-working, stressful, sleepless, caffeinated week. The drama queen in me was shoved in the wings, while the Christ figure solidified itself centre-stage-- so I carried the weight of my work all alone. And come on, I am capable of better things than just cribbing! Proof: I wrote a poem last week whilst I was submerged under books and books.

--- The Poem: (It doesn't have a title)

Rustle, rustle, of the turning page,
Hard-covers against my rib-cage.
On my toes, under my nails, in my hair,
Paper, ink, print and words tear
Each other to the profit of my mind:
Tautologies, oxymorons and nonsense combined.
I lick the words, swallow the argument:
"But what is it, that de Certeau meant?"
I turn on my back, head on my pillow,
Under my neck, the complete works of Pirandello.
I tattoo my skin with all those words:
Meaning nest in my mind like herds
Of philosophers whose fingers are hammers
That go about hitting in army-like manners.

(I haven't written a poem in a long time, so comments/feedback phuleez.)

Monday, April 13, 2009

Mourning the Death of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (1950-2009)

I don't think I'm good with deaths, I don't know whether I am good with mourning either. I barely ever had to experience death. Ghosts is what I am interested in, trace and haunting are what fascinate me.

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick died last night. So I heard. Suffice it to say that she's been a very inspirational figure in my academic (and social/life) interests? Suffice it to say that if it wasn't for Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire (1985) and Epistemology of the Closet (1990), I wouldn't have managed to write my major research paper that allowed me to obtain my M.A. last year? And suffice it to say that if I hadn't read her, I wouldn't even have called my blog The Queer Behind the Mirror?

I thought that coming to North-America would allow me to meet her at a point of time. I thought I would travel to a conference in NY and bump into her there to tell her about my work, and how much she influenced my work and life. Vivek had met her in Amsterdam last year and he told me of the great figure she is. He had also told me that she was fighting cancer though.

Well, I am now left with Tendencies (1993), A Dialogue on Love (1999) and Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy and Performativity (2003) to read and discover. May be it suffices to say her ghost will be haunting queer studies for generations and generations to come...

An homage to Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick: An Inspirational Figure, for many.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Her Clandestine Bed [fiction fragment]

He called and said he'd come tonight. So she busied herself the whole day:

She started by cleaning off the room-- books back on the shelf, crumbles and left-overs disappeared from her table and gave way to an empty vase that she might later fill with the flowers he would probably get her. She got rid of the coffee stained mugs, washed them while putting the chocolate wraps in the bin. She then removed the bed sheets and the pillow covers, washed them and let them dry in the sun.

And what about herself? She cut her nails, painted them pink (the way he likes them), washed her hair that she dried and brushed. She checked the fridge for the bottle of wine, the cupboards for scented candles, and dropped by the bakery for croissants the next day.

Then she sat reading without registering, restless on a couch as time whiled by. In the evening, she took the sun-soaked linen off the line and smelt lavender as she made the bed and diligently placed the six pillows she always kept. As she made the bed, she sighed remembering the feeling of crisp linen on her skin, a contrast to the warmth of his body, a paradox in this square bed that she looked forward to, along with their passionate love-making.

That's when he called to say he wouldn't come, for he couldn't come. His wife had a harsh week and he needed to be there by her side.

That night she went to bed thrilled by the feel of sun-soaked lavender on her nakedness. That night, she also went to bed thrilled that she had put an end to their clandestine meetings.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Friday, March 6, 2009

Time And The Broken Heart [a sonnet]

His boy said: "I'm bored of you! It's time to end!
The story's lasted long enough, goodbye mate!"
He felt the crack in his heart, that he'd have to mend:
"I'll be brave," he thought, "And get my life straight."

He called up his friends, in humbled state:
"I feel distressed" he said. "Seeking words of advice."
All of them replied that, he had to wait,
For time heals it all; time will suffice.

Yes... Time healed it in the past: once, twice, thrice.
He saw hopes ticking a clock on the wall;
Heard the broken heart-- a detonating device.
Waited, till he realized : "Time does not heal it all!"

Along with time, he needed pancakes and maple syrup-- lots!
Plus bitching, crying, smoking and a few vodka shots.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

This IS Overwhelming! [a video]

A friend of mine sent me the link to this video some time back, and I must say, it is very overwhelming, close to the most beautiful thing I saw in a long time. As I woke up the other day and watched it, I actually cried throughout the duration of the clip. It just touched me so much, like one of those things that I can't describe, but I ought to share with you, so here it is. Is it the dance? Is it the joy in it? Is it that man traveling the world? Is it just the beauty of the act? I don't know... I think I went through my life crying of grief, crying of pain, crying of stress, crying of dejection, but really rarely did I cry of beauty, and that's what I did when I watched this video.

Let me know what you think and also, do check this website [link here] which explains the entire project-- fascinating stuff!


Small Poem For All Those [Saintly] Work-oholics Out There

When I was a kid,
One thing they did
Say: "Work is worship!"
So I worked, crazy shit!

Now as an adult,
I think of the result:
May be I should
Apply for Sainthood?