"No hay camino"

Empiezo mi ultimo ano de bachillerato pensando en este poema de mi querido poeta, Senor Antonio Machado. De lo cual, yo enfoco en los sentidos no-existencialistas porque siempre hay impactos y consecuencias aunque no los quiera. Disfrute!

Proverbios y cantares, XXIX
Por Antonio Machado

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino:
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
Y al volver la vista átras
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
Sino estelas en la mar.

Awaiting Ramadan...

But this is for anyone who has ever fasted, of any faith or creed.

Or maybe just for people who like milkshakes and dates.

Medjool Date Shake

ENERGY BOOSTING MEDJOOL DATE SHAKE
The Ultimate Energy Drink. Serves Two

Ingredients
1 Cup chopped, pitted dates

1 cup skimmed milk

6 scoops French Vanilla ice cream.

1/2 teaspoon grated fresh nutmeg.

Directions: Combine milk and dates in a blender and puree. Add ice cream and grate the fresh nutmeg into blender. Mix until smooth. Serve immediately.

Variations: Replace ice cream with non-fat frozen yogurt.

Try adding other fruits

Nandalal Bose

The Slideshow:

Art & Design

An Indian Modernist

National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi

Published: 20080820

A selection of works by the painter Nandalal Bose, which are on display at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

The Article:

Art Review

Indian Modernism via an Eclectic and Elusive Artist

By HOLLAND COTTER

Published: August 20, 2008

“Rhythms of India: The Art of Nandalal Bose (1882-1966)" delivers a significant piece of news: that modernism wasn’t a purely Western product sent out to a hungry and waiting world.

Ode to my motherland

I am here. You are there. Circumstances have separated us, but you will forever remain in my mind, my heart and my soul. Just because I am with my adopted mother, does not mean I have forgotten the values you imparted. Some day we will be reunited when this estrangement I can no longer bear. O mother, where else will I go?

Translation of the Indian National Anthem, one of the many jewels that Rabindranath Tagore bestowed us with:

"Thou are the ruler of the minds of all people, dispenser of India's destiny.
The name rouses the hearts of Punjab, Sind, Gujurat and Maratha.
Of the Dravid and Orissa and Bengal.
It Echoes in the hills of Vindhyas and Himalayas, mingles in the music of Yamuna and Ganga and is chanted by the waves of the Indian Sea.
They pray for your blessing and sing thy praise.
The salvation of all peaople is thy hand, thou dispenser of India's destiny.
Victory, Victory, Victory to thee."

Poor Sheep...Poor Butcher

From the NYT Baghdad Bureau:

Bloody Blessing Goes Unnoticed
By Campbell Robertson
Published: August 13, 2008
The ritual killing of sheep at an official dedication ceremony isn't particularly noteworthy in the Middle East, but for a Westerner it adds an element of drama.

"Immortalize my words"

While I admire our fellow blogger's enthusiasm and motivation to write ghazals, I hesitate to partake. Poetry is far from my forte (well, writing in general is). So while I ponder and let my muse inpire me, I shall listen to the great Indian maestros such as Pankaj Udhas and Jagjit Singh and hope for some creativity to flow:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzruTCf1ZoU

Rough English translation:

Touch my song with your lips, make it immortal:
Be my beloved, make my love immortal.
No restriction of age, not the bond of lives:
When someone loves should see only the soul:
By carving new trend, make the trend immortal.
Loneliness of the sky is in my lone heart:
With rattling paayal enter into my life:
By giving own breaths make the music immortal:
Make the music immortal, make my song immortal.
World snatched from me, whatever was beloved to me:
All won from me, I lost at every moment:
By losing your heart you make my victory immortal.

Let's Write Ghazals!

I thought some poetry would be an excellent way to relax after this weekend/week. When I think of ghazals, I can't help but remember the great Mughal monuments and palaces I visited in India. Pensive and caught up in my own fanciful rusticity, I would indulge in the sublime beauty of my surroundings and imagine myself a dancing girl, a musician or even a poet in the midst of the artistic opulence of the Mughal court. Yes, I am indeed a spoony old thing at heart, aren't I? *wink*

We'll work on our ghazals throughout this week during breaks and random moments of inspiration - then present them next week. Good, bad, funny, tragic, whatever - we'll share the fruits of our laborious creativity soon. Disclaimer: I pretty much suck at poetry.

WIKIHOW - How to write a Ghazal:

Steps

1. Decide what your radif is going to be. Every verse ends with the same word or group of words (radif). It makes sense to choose one that can be flexible in use and meaning, so you can use it in different ways in each verse.
2. Consider what your qaafiya is going to be. The qaafiya is a rhyme that precedes the radif. Again, pick something with lots of possibility.
3. Get writing! A ghazal consists of a series of couplets (two-line verses), with each line containing the same number of syllables. Each couplet is a separate, complete mini-poem, so there's no need for any narrative progression, or any real connection between the couplets. Both lines of the first verse end with the qaafiya and radif. See down the page for an example ghazal.
   

Tips

• You're bound to make a few false starts, and you'll soon realise that your choice of radif is the single most important factor in determining how successful your ghazal is likely to be.
• Traditional topics include love
  
• Traditionally, the poet's pen-name was included in the last verse; this final couplet usually contains a 'turn', or change of tone, to something more personal or quirky.
• Remember, each couplet constitutes a separate little poem, so don't have one verse rely on a previous one to make sense.
  

Example Ghazal

In this example, the radif is "I do not know", while the qaafiya (the rhyme preceding it) is -ate, as in slate, fate, depreciate, etc. In the example, each line contains 14 syllables, but any length is fine - it's up to you.

Stranger at the Gate

Who cares about the stranger at the gate? I do not know
The poor orphan, abandoned to his fate? I do not know

Where once I had the answers, now my mind is full of doubt
How do these certainties depreciate? I do not know

From noon till night our ardent looks would scandalize the town
Why is it that your eyes are filled with hate? I do not know

It used to be that man respected man for what he did
These days are we just numbers on the slate? I do not know

The wisdom of the years is something valued now by none
The butt of standing jokes, this balding pate? I do not know

The saqi¹ turns his back; how many skins will be required,
oh my love, this unholy thirst to sate? I do not know

Once upon a time Amir was counted a believer
To every question now I simply state, I do not know

Here's the article on Ghazals from WIKI:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghazal

You tell 'em Maureen!

On this blog we've had several shout-outs to Times columnists, but I'd like to give a special "Holla Back" to Maureen for her latest article. She spits the truth without hesitations and in a plain manner. Our paternalistic society is too quick to brush away such grave mistakes committed by men. While the woman is the Ho or the Slut with the loose morals. Riiiiiighhhhht.
Let's start rectifying things by applying male chauvinism to, well, males! Refraining from using such lingo altogether is the most ideal solution, but for now the over-zealous feminist in me finds the bashing from the likes of Dowd, quite ideal. One step at a time. You go Maureen!

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/10/opinion/10dowd.html?em

This part of her article is especially worth noting:

"For some reason, super-strivers have a need to sell what is secretly weakest about themselves, as if they yearn for unmasking. Edwards’s decency and concern for the weak in society — except for his own wife. Bill Clinton’s intellect and love of community — except for his stupidity and destructiveness about Monica. Bush the Younger’s jocular, I’m-in-charge self-confidence — except for turning over his presidency, as no president ever has, to his Veep. Eliot Spitzer’s crusade for truth, justice and the American way — except at home."

Muah-ha-ha-ha-HA

really? Really?!!! ::here's me resisting the urge to make a Russell Peters reference::

Minorities Often a Majority of the Population Under 20

By SAM ROBERTS
Published: August 6, 2008

Confirming the breadth of the nation’s diversity, census numbers show racial and ethnic minorities now account for 43 percent of Americans under 20.

Clockwork Blasphemy

Hello my little piece of laminated, fragile hope. Adorned with your garish array of bright, mismatched colors and symbols, I find you in the hands of many a passerby. Usually, in the callused, worn hands of whom I can only wish would cease to indulge in your false claims and exclamations. You shed layers only to reveal more sequentially meaningless characters and symbols. They promulgate thoughts of hopelessness, more roadblocks, more intrinsically “bad karma” or a divinely ordained dismal fate. Minimal as your contribution of sadness may be to the daily, bitter heaps of trials, tribulations, wounded bones and bleeding hearts, your fraction is just as sinister. Because it piles up. You know that your ashes, scattered in the wind, on the floor and out the window could congeal from many many crevices to form a slippery black mountain of despair with one shining, rarely attainable diamond at the crest.

Yet, they make a minor deity out of you still. You are concocted and perpetuated with a recipe that includes sacrificed earnings, blood, sweat and tears, mixed with greater hopes for their children, homelands, forgotten languages, birthrights, distant loved ones and the desire to retrieve whatever is left of their essential humanity. Like clockwork blasphemy they reach for you even if they reach for nothing else. On good days, maybe you are plucked and delivered alongside a pack of cigarettes that will replace meals and barely satiate hunger, perhaps a cheap cup of burned coffee, even an hours-old piece of bread and meat fresh off the glare of a heat lamp and hot metal rods. And in my own observation of your patrons, I see the ubiquitous crying out for hope, for mercy, for blessings from God – for a breath of relief, for once, at last, but probably – never.

"I'll see you at the debates, bitches" - Paris Hilton's Response to McCain's Ads

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/64ad536a6d

Mmhmm, find me an engineer like that!

Giju John, where you been all my life?!
http://www.sepiamutiny.com/sepia/archives/005321.html#more

"Te queremos y que Dios te bendiga"

This article about Luis Jimenez, a Guatemalan illegal immigrant who was deported back to his country by a private hospital is particularly representative of the dismal crossroads between the two heavy issues: Immigration and Health-care.
Check out the slide-show and also go back and see the video featured (alongwith the article of course). His reading of the letter towards the end, brought tears to my eyes and simultaneously provoked extreme anger. How do we rectify such things? What would be the just outcome in this case?
http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/08/01/us/20080803DEPORT_index.html

I.E. Top Republicans are Racist.

Just look at their campaign strategy. Bob Herbert addresses it in this article.

Running While Black

By BOB HERBERT

Published: August 2, 2008

The racial fantasy factor in this presidential campaign is out of control.

We Oughta Know

1/2 Asian-American/Canadian kid - Justin Nozuka's video debuted on VH1 recently. I think the song "After Tonight" is notable. His sound is acoustic, somewhat pristine, soulful and surprisingly mature for an 18-year old. An excerpt from his Myspace page:

"This guitar slinging aficionado has the street smarts of an urban swinger and the heart-bending soul of a gospel preacher, and is adept at blending a dark, bluesy Americana vibe with warm, acoustic soul where bits of old folk music and flamenco tunes swirl in and out of earshot."

Apparently, he learned how to play guitar from his "Mexican friends in boarding school." Yes, these bios always sound kind of cheesy, but this one strikes a chord with me. He seems to have grown up with a variety of experiences and cultural influences. I like that. It's reflected in some of his songs/lyrics. Especially, the heart-breaking song "Save Him" about domestic abuse.

I might go see him in concert sometime in September because he's probably going to be even better live in an intimate venue. He's also getting good reviews on Amazon, iTunes, etc.

Check out his music at: http://www.myspace.com/justinnozuka

"After Tonight" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgGkJez6pcM

"Save Him" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bu9M6Shva5w

What's in a name?

Nothing, yet everything. The wondrous amount of weight a single word can carry is baffling to me. I mean, on a plain level, it is just a concoction of random letters that happen to identify me. My character doesn't change with it. My actions aren't influenced by it. Then why the hell does it matter if the majority of people are not able to pronounce it. People suffer from much tragic things. I can live with Impossibly-Pronouncable-Name Syndrome, right? Wrong.

I deemed myself worthy of a prize when I was growing up, for having the most unique name. Give me the Hindi version, and I was confused for a bit, but I was fine. Give the Gujarati version and I was fine. Give me the Telugu version and I was fine. But no one warned me about how effed up the Angrezi version would be. I blame the Americans' incapability to EVER correctly pronounce my name for the low self-confidence and lack of self-esteem I experienced.
"Wait, how do you say that?" "Is it ouajdfoau?" HELL NAW!
I dreaded the day a substitute would proxy for my teachers. They would always compensate for their incompetence by claiming "ooh you have such a beautiful name", "wow, what a cool name."
Then why CAN'T you pronounce it?! I mean, I'm not asking you to build a robot and it is not exactly rocket science.

I thought that I was being too harsh on my life's spectators and that I should give them a break. "Sure," I said, "call me __" or "call me whatever you want." Big mistake. I should never have stooped so low. My judgment was too clouded by my desire to be accepted, be it at the cost of sacrificing the essence that had characterized my being for so long. You can't blame me either. I could physically feel and still feel people avoiding me, purposefully delaying their interaction with me, so that THEY don't suffer the embarassment of mispronouncing my name.

However, it is high time for me to say "THAT'S ENOUGH, GET IT RIGHT BITCH!" For far too long, I have tolerated this misery and I shall bear it nevermore, nevermore. So what if it takes you 50 tries until you learn my name, I will stand over you with a bludgeon and make sure you practice it those 5o times. I will not forego opportunities to establish rapport, make contacts and for lack of a better term, "network," because the audience is too close-minded and too self-absorbed to address me with the correct pronunciation. I don't know if I'm being too adamant and if my mission will be accomplished, but for now, I will take advantage of this glorious name of the Goddess Sita that my grandfather has lovingly bestowed upon me and fight for its honor.
Ohh Gogol Ganguli, you had it easy, my friend, you had it WAY too easy.