About Me

Prone to hyperbole. Self indulgent to a fault. Compulsive Liar. Inveterately Honest. Obviously Oxymoronic.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Thanks but No Thanksgiving

I'm sick and my imagination, it seems, finds its outlet through my nose. I have 2 stories in my head that refuse to crystallize. I need someone (preferably female, hot and in a french maid outfit) to bring me soup to release the stories from their phlegm-ridden prison.
In other news, this phenomenal article that systematically deconstructs casteism in Hinduism was brought to my attention. I'm glad that someone had the foresight to appoint Dr.Ambedkar to oversee the writing of the Constitution. I leave you with a small excerpt from the link.

"Caste does not result in economic efficiency. Caste cannot and has not improved the race. Caste has however done one thing. It has completely disorganized and demoralized the Hindus. The first and foremost thing that must be recognized is that Hindu Society is a myth. The name Hindu is itself a foreign name. It was given by the Mohammedans to the natives for the purpose of distinguishing themselves. It does not occur in any Sanskrit work prior to the Mohammedan invasion. They did not feel the necessity of a common name because they had no conception of their having constituted a community. Hindu society as such does not exist. It is only a collection of castes. Each caste is conscious of its existence. Its survival is the be all and end all of its existence. Castes do not even form a federation. A caste has no feeling that it is affiliated to other castes except when there is a Hindu-Muslim riot. On all other occasions each caste endeavours to segregate itself and to distinguish itself from other castes. Each caste not only dines among itself and marries among itself but each caste prescribes its own distinctive dress. What other explanation can there be of the innumerable styles of dress worn by the men and women of India which so amuse the tourists ? Indeed the ideal Hindu must be like a rat living in his own hole refusing to have any contact with others. There is an utter lack among the Hindus of what the sociologists call " consciousness of kind ". There is no Hindu consciousness of kind. In every Hindu the consciousness that exists is the consciousness of his caste. That is the reason why the Hindus cannot be said to form a society or a nation. There are however many Indians whose patriotism does not permit them to admit that Indians are not a nation, that they are only an amorphous mass of people. They have insisted that underlying the apparent diversity there is a fundamental unity which marks the life of the Hindus in as much as there is a similarity of habits and customs, beliefs and thoughts which obtain all over the continent of India. Similarity in habits and customs, beliefs and thoughts there is. But one cannot accept the conclusion that therefore, the Hindus constitute a society. To do so is to misunderstand the essentials which go to make up a society. Men do not become a society by living in physical proximity any more than a man ceases to be a member of his society by living so many miles away from other men. Secondly similarity in habits and customs, beliefs and thoughts is not enough to constitute men into society. Things may be passed physically from one to another like bricks. In the same way habits and customs, beliefs and thoughts of one group may be taken over by another group and there may thus appear a similarity between the two. Culture spreads by diffusion and that is why one finds similarity between various primitive tribes in the matter of their habits and customs, beliefs and thoughts, although they do not live in proximity. But no one could say that because there was this similarity the primitive tribes constituted one society. This is because similarly in certain things is not enough to constitute a society. Men constitute a society because they have things which they possess in common. To have similar thing is totally different from possessing things in common. And the only way by which men can come to possess things in common with one another is by being in communication with one another. This is merely another way of saying that Society continues to exist by communication indeed in communication. To make it concrete, it is not enough if men act in a way which agrees with the acts of others. Parallel activity, even if similar, is not sufficient to bind men into a society. This is proved by the fact that the festivals observed by the different Castes amongst the Hindus are the same. Yet these parallel performances of similar festivals by the different castes have not bound them into one integral whole. For that purpose what is necessary is for a man to share and participate in a common activity so that the same emotions are aroused in him that animate the others. Making the individual a sharer or partner in the associated activity so that he feels its success as his success, its failure as his failure is the real thing that binds men and makes a society of them. The Caste System prevents common activity and by preventing common activity it has prevented the Hindus from becoming a society with a unified life and a consciousness of its own being."

10 comments:

  1. No reference to the hilariously lovable antics of a sister in a habit (Whoa, Whoopi!) this, but to my little sister's bad habit of making reading reccos that have religiously put me on the road to ruin -- a road that, as I ruefully realize, has no U-turns! (This year alone, I swear, I'd have been much better off had I the foresight to make "Thou Shalt Not Pay Heed to Thy Sister" my singular resolution.)

    When I picked her up at the airport days before Thanksgiving and she waved the book-she-just-finished-on-the-plane in my face saying I've GOT to give it a read, my antenna went up. But unfortunately for me, I was only able to repel the recco for a week, and the day I succumbed to reading the first chapter of The Mistress of Spices turned out to be My Day from Hell
    -- so much so I have half a mind to give that book the "Fahrenheit 451" treatment (and this coming from someone who treats things linked to literature like sacred objects, IS something).

    Oh well. Now that I've gotten that burning thought (thought of burning?) off my head, let me chime in with a recollection that may actually be related to this post: The mind-blowing Tarsem Singh video of an all-time favorite REM song that I watched, for the first time, earlier this week. (Talk about transgressions, that Milk Jug in the window instantly took me back to There Will Be Blood.)

    I remember once poo-pooing a suggestion I read somewhere that in these charged communal climes, it's a good practice to prominently display disclaimers when commenting on a post that touches upon religion, no matter how innocuous one's response. And here I am, eating humble pie (or is it Plum Cake, since we're *this* close to Christmas, but more because I can't bear the thought of another pie, post-Thanksgiving?), penning my very own. (Chalk that up to Thou Shalt Take No More Chances in Life, aka Twice Bitten, Forever Shy.)

    DISCLAIMER: None of what I say here has anything to do with any religion or its offshoots and, consequently, I make no claims to contributing, directly or indirectly, towards affronting or augmenting this excellent write-up ruing the rabid ramifications of Hinduism. Isms have never done much for me (Fanaticism, Skepticism..), but can't say the same of Ity though (Serendipity, Christianity...Wait, but isn't Christianity a religion? It sure is, but my connection with it has always been symbolic/fabulistic. For instance, ever since I watched Kismat Konnection 2 or 3 weeks back, the words "Boman Irani" have never failed to conjure up the mental image of Rio's Redeemer -- which is, in turn, inextricably intertwined with that song from D2 that goes "My name is Ali" -- and what's more freaky/funny, "Boman Irani" has always come my way to enliven my senses after a particularly trying episode of Morale-Crash. What do they say about -- at the risk of sounding perfectly p(r)eachy -- every cloud having a silver lining!).

    Now that I've gotten that formality out of the way, can we segue into the topic of words conjuring up mental images? (Not really looking for permission to proceed, as I'm more than used to saying whatever, and then winding up a casualty of casual conversation. So much for that "Twice Bitten, Forever Shy" talk. Funny how, in the face of pain, More Pain sometimes sounds like Morphine...I know!) Take the word "Poo" for instance. Say it to a Tamil-speaking adult and they think Flower; try a small child and all they can think of is taking a dump! And once you the adult lands in the latter's territory, it's one slurpy slippery slope after another -- try saying Flower to a child that's just watched Bambi (Response: "Yewww"....with fingers clipped over nose).

    P.S: When words like "Poo" and "Flower" start conjuring up images of Shit and Skunk, that's when you know that life has started to, well, Stink!

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  2. If I didn't already rely on my gut feeling that a born-empathizer like you will never look askance at my alarmingly frequent "antics" here, all in the name of allaying my (godforsaken) anxieties, I guess I would at least extrapolate your tolerance (of my blathering) to mean that once you're convinced someone is a thick-skinned pachyderm (tautology entirely intentional), a Who-hearing Horton of sorts, you just let them be (and better still, get out of their way!). OK, I was just finding a reason to explain away the elephantine amounts of gratitude that I suddenly found welling up within, the moment I opened the morning paper and knew I did still have a place to run to, to report my "freaky findings" of the day.

    On the cover page of the SV Life section was a promo picture of a "Bambi" birdhouse -- a decorative piece actually made from decoupaged covers of old classics found at flea markets, by this company. It was part of a feature story called "Earthwise Gifts" promoting environmentally friendly gift-giving this holiday season. If you do go to that site, click on the "Kids" link, you'll see The Literary Birdhouse, photos and all.

    Made my day!

    P.S: After weeping over that pair of Lucky dice I'd lost last week, I caught JBJ last night and voila, on the penultimate scene was this guy chatting up Alvira in her room, with Ricky telescopically looking on from across the street; inscribed, in white, on this soon-to-be-shown-the-door guy's blue t-shirt was a pair of white dice and the letters L-U-C-K-Y, whoa!

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  3. OK, it's about time you drank a couple warm glasses of this and got the hell off that couch you've been getting too cozy on, with that all-too-common excuse of (a) crystal gazing, (b) fantasizing about a hot French female bringing you something hot. Coz, while you passively await your imagination's emancipation from *the* Mucosa Manacle, some gate-crashing guest columnist (wracked by a similar problem, ostensibly) has been actively gargling and offloading oodles of Sodium Chloride on to your space here, yes, in the name of helping her imagination find its outlet.

    So buck up now. Some of us don't have an eternity to wait for you to post (a) a No Trespassing sign and/or (b) those two stories (c'mon, out with them crystals, orthorhombic or otherwise!)

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  4. Sister Act/Dice/Hydroxide: The next story is in thamizh, and it is still formatting itself in my head. Doesnt look like it will be too long. And about that "No Trespassing" sign - It would seem rather stupid to turn away my most regular reader, but then I am not writign to be read, so.....

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  5. "The next story is in thamizh"...Ayyo, enakku Tamil kathi kodukarthukku ne oru Movement launch panranga pola irruku! :-)

    "..but then I am not writing to be read" - I know eggjactly what you mean (the fact that I am writing only to Be Red, notwithstanding)!

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  6. Saturday saw me surrounded by a feeling of warmth despite what felt like hell freezing over, climatically speaking (oh these spoiled Californians, as New Yorkers would say). Must've been the hearth-warming references from that morning.

    The Home & Garden section of the paper had this welcoming sight of a larger-than-life flickering flame, seemingly dancing alongside a cutesy picture of the LookiLoo, a featured fireplace.

    The body of warmth emanating from (wood or gas) burning fireplaces, nicely complemented, elsewhere, by bodies burning-in-love by the fireplace, ah! Home surely is wherever the hearth is, this holiday season.

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  7. It's a bummer the Fincher movie Rendezvous with Rama never really took off (thanks, partly, to Morgan Freeman being unwell). But it sure feels like "God" is back in action, at least in My Life (to Live?...ah, Godard; tableaux of twelve, and we're BaRely a week from the "12" days of Christmas), if my trysts with the "Divine" over the last few weeks are anything to go by.

    [For instance: (a) I was heading out of Trader Joe's last month and, contrary to the usual "Doing the Most Good" Salvation Army donation desk that greets grocery shoppers outside stores during the holiday season, I saw an utterly unusual duo -- a Chinese couple in deity costume, complete with eye-catching gold-embroidered red attire, bedecked in all kinds of (what looked like) imperial jewelry that, had they not broken the blinding spell by handing me a pamphlet entitled Divine (promoting the Chinese New Year extravaganza at the War Memorial Opera House), I might have, in a weak moment of unwarranted grace (weekly warranted moments of Grace?), actually prostrated before them believing I was at Heaven's, as opposed to Trader Joe's, doors. Now what had my jaw dropping even further was the complete contrast-in-colors "exhibit" right next to this Divine Duo: A black and white poster on an easel that read "LaRoche is Right" and proceeded to ramble on about the need for economic reform and how one Mr.LaRoche supposedly has all the answers...and the guy that was manning this exhibit handed me a pen to sign up/donate whatever, but I was long done paying attention to his cackling...in fact, I was insolent enough (though not intentionally so) to burst out laughing when he asked, in a half-humorous half-admonishing tone, Ma'am, don't you care about the economy?, because all I could think of was what Chris Cooper (LaRoche) said to Meryl Streep in my previous night's viewing of Adaptation.

    (b) Considering that my Thanksgiving weekend heartache is currently public info, it's no cause for surprise that "God" should be in the know, as well, for I ended up pulling out of
    the Safeway parking lot that Sunday, right behind a dirty-green Infinity SUV, on whose license plate was engraved this feel-good formula, complete with the all-familiar emoticon: "Smile. God Loves you."

    (c) Last Friday was Doubly Divine: I pulled up at the light behind a black Isuzu Rodeo; engraved on its license plate were the words "Headed in the wrong direction? God allows U-turns," and next to it was a bumper sticker that read "Jesus Rocks!" A little later, I was at Costco and there *It* was again (Trader Joe's, Take 2?) - just one guy this time, in that Chinese opera costume, standing next to the book table, handing out pamphlets to that same show. I took one, and walked right into the open arms of...Audacity of Hope!

    (d) As I waltzed into Mervyn's (no reason to dance, for the store goes belly-up this weekend, but me being Proud Peacock, self-centered and all...) yesterday -- had a gift cert from last year to burn so, much as I abhor the two words "sale" and "shopping" -- I practically ran down this little girl walking out, with her mom (I think), wearing a red t-shirt underneath a heavy blue jacket; inscribed on the t-shirt, in white sequins, were the words "Jesus is Awesome." (e) The Thursday Arts supplement feature article I read this morning, "Metallica Comes Home," talked about the band's Oracle Arena concert this weekend, with Lamb of God; nicely complementing it, this very afternoon, was Wally Lamb, for I read "The power of grace," an article about Lamb's latest book, "The Hour I First Believed." (f) Finally, I was at the library picking out Sesame Street and Little Einstein DVDs for a particularly pesky two-year-old (somehow managed to snag these 4 DVDs during a five-minute stop; eagle eyes, all right -- (1) Big Bird in China, synopsis: Big Bird's desire to find the legendary Chinese phoenix leads him and Barkley the Dog to an exciting adventure in China. Along the way, they meet the mischievous Monkey King... (2) Little Einsteins blast off on their musical ship, Rocket, that takes them on a whirlwind (a) adventure over Niagara Falls, inside a spooky cave and finally to the amazing butterfly forest in Mexico, where they meet the Migrating Monarchs; (b) voyage around the globe, where the little "superheroes" experience close encounters with a bald eagle, an erupting volcano and friendly whales to learn how teamwork can save the day; (c) trip to the Far East for a parade of beautiful kites along the Great Wall of China, then head west to the City by the Bay to help a brave little toy plane rescue a green helicopter and (d) journey across the Egyptian desert to find a legendary Golden Pyramid and, with help from a magical Sphinx, unlock its musical secrets!); as I walked back to the parking lot, a bumper sticker on the rear windshield of the grey Honda Odyssey parked next to my car, caught my eye -- a white winged angel, with the inscription "Spirit Driven"; above and below the license plate were two more bumper stickers, in black, with words printed in green: (Top: "What are you grateful for?" Bottom: "CafeGratitude.com") -- as did the dark blue Infinity sedan parked diagonally across, with its Pembroke, NC license-plate inscription "Cuddling Corgis," appropriately illustrated with two miniature blue dogs, to match the car color.]

    All said and done, the highlight of my day, today, was the a-ha moment this Rick Bass write-up afforded -- that Distance has a truly Divine ability to blind, and then bind...Bard, Bird and Bloodhound. And I thank My Dear Dog ('m Ready, God; "Ready?...'m God!"; "My Odd Rage?"; "Y! Do Drag Me"; "O', My Grade? D"; "My Degrado"; "Go! My Dear D.."; "Read. Do. Gym."; "Y! God, Dream.."; "Dreamy Dog!"; "Go, D'ydream";...But seriously, what strange anagrammatic, alliterative affliction ails my sordid self? And to think "God" was Sikh -- poor pun jab (We Met?), I know -- Jeez, talk about much ado, it's "My God, Read!" OK?...just Read, My God, My Dear God.) for that Butterflies-in-my-Belly epiphany!

    P.S: BTW, Rhamlee is credited with being a trumpeteer for "Something Happened On the Way to Heaven" from the titular album...*see* any co(S)mic connections there?

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  8. Ah, that explains it! But like the nursery rhyme goes, "Finders keepers, losers weepers" (not that Colt's the unforgiving kind, but who's to say Dolt's Atonement is not "just" another dubious coincidence? And considering the fragility factor of that furnace within, it needs just a wee (woo?) bit more fuel to rekindle its fusty fierceness).

    It also puts a couple other "sightings" of the week (withheld earlier) in perspective: An airport drop-off on Wed later, I followed a black Toyota Rav 4, sporting a white "Broncoholic" bumper sticker, on to the freeway; just as I was about to exit, a
    black Lincoln Town Car passed me on my left, with 'Livery, CA' license plate; I passed a black Toyota Sequoia with an "ILUMN8T" vanity plate; at the library lot yesterday, like I said, was this Dark Blue Infinity, diagonally
    (Diagon Alley?) across from me; but what I didn't mention though, was this vintage model white Mustang I'd parked right behind
    (without "outing" its license plate number, much as I'm tempted to, let me (inventively? Like there's another way!) "spell" out
    what the numbers re-assembled inside my head as -- ForeZee, H, Eight-to-Eight; I made a pit-stop at Safeway, pulling up behind a yellow Honda CRX, catching a quick glimpse of the driver's seat upholstery -- black cloth, interestingly bedecked with five embroidered butterflies -- and license plate ("Five, yell. Double, you be. Five, fie Nine!" And no, my memory is not that good -- call me Sherlock Holmes with ADD, who spends more time jotting down numbers than jogging his memory; Safeway shoppers can probably call me Parking-lot Ranger) before a middle-aged Caucasian male (in a dark blue t-shirt and a heavy red jacket) eased himself behind its wheel; in my mailbox yesterday was this curious "sampler" item (courtesy consumer-marketing machinery in this country conveniently catching hold of every household's demographic; I call it contrab(r)and) -- that I, at first, thought was a trial CD (TaxCut, etc.) of some sort, from the size and color of the packaging, but it was an "Always Infinity" (thinner than ever before!) sanitary napkin in a blue-green/white/gray CD-like sleeve with these words cursively carved in white "You've never experienced a pad like this before...," alongside this graphic of (what looked like) a three-petaled -- two green, one white -- Tulip-Lotus cross, the "Always" brand name inscribed within, crowned (like a princess!) by the mathematical symbol for Infinity," (Blake with a twist...hand to head!) that looked like a snipped slice of the Double Helix...Talk about Bloodhounds and Bonds of Blood!

    In other news, Friday mornings being forever "Picturesque," Merc movie reviews showcased 4 movies on one page: Seven Pounds (review sourced from the Colin Covert write-up in the Minneapolis Star tribune titled "In search of redemption."); The Tale of
    Desperaux -- like I haven't had enough already of Ratatouille repeat viewings -- (sourced from the Wesley Morris write-up in the
    Boston Globe titled "Desperaux is handsome, charming"); Yes Man (from the Roger Moore write-up in the Orlando (Fla.) Sentinel opening thus: "Yes is the new 'no' in Yes Man..." [a Liar Liar look-alike, it seems]); and...hold your breath for the highlight...Benjamin Button (about which Reed Johnson writes in the LA Times, "In 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,' time doesn't just slip away. It surges like the tsunami, swamping cities and washing aside human lives like so much Mississippi Delta topsoil. It rolls backward and forward like a movie projector, un-spooling the tale of a man whose peculiar fate is to age in reverse...") that seemed to me to be more a Curious Case of Dasavatharam-meets-Forrest Gump-meets-Peter Pan!

    Off topic (now why does that term feel oxymoronic?), I Chanced upon the Dean Takahashi review, 'Refighting World War II,' of the Xbox (x-B, Ox? Wait...isn't the Chinese New Year that kicks off on January 26, Year of the Ox, after February 7 2008's Year of the Rat and February 18 2007's Year of the Pig?) Game, Call of Duty 3, on the comics page online. Takahashi closes with "You die a lot in this game and you have to fight the same battles over and over in order to win them." Speaking of the comics page, today's "Pearls.." strip, where Dog oh-so-onomatopoeically slams Rat with a slab of brick, was especially poetic...K-O-N-K! (K on K, as opposed to K2K?). I guess I should stop yakking now...Gotta Go...Walk. Trot. Gallop!

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  9. P.S: Ah, "..water takes the form of whatever container it is put in" -- adds a mythical dimension to the all-familiar existential equation that begins with the primordial question "I," a Myth? (surely the shortest summary of *the* movie whose entire storyline is submerged in a six-letter sentence...whose most eloquent "dialogue is all of ONE word that leaves your heart in your mouth!").

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  10. About the only things the two movies have in common are the birthdays of the leads -- Sissy "K. Space" and Humphrey "Bog Rat" were both born (50 years apart) on Christmas Day. So much for a Christmas-Eve factoid for Star-crossed Star gazers...

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