witches

Whoever had thought that the wicked witch of the west would find support through the modern interpretations of history! And yet every time someone utters the term ‘Malleus Maleficarum’ all I can see are fumes of green smoke rising from a huge cauldron…. tales of burning at the altar…screaming hands rising from the fiery red! The 15th-16th century witch-hunts were quite the thing capturing the wild imaginations of the people throughout the ages! And it continues to fascinate all with the turn of every century!! Infact its source of power to establish itself so firmly in our minds probably derives from its association with the anti-Christ. At the center of all witch-beliefs was the Devil, a thought so appealing to the senses…a thought well linked with the ideas of sexuality, passion and the unrepentant evil. It’s probably too human to lust for the unattainable, to crave for that one forbidden task! And however much one tries to brand it evil, witchcraft and its history forever casts a spell on the curious minds to lure them towards its satanic charms!
Given its sensual charms…modern writings are finally bursting the myths, quite unfortunately. The tales of the witches and the fairies, where the old hag almost always kidnapped the kids to burn them in a pot of boiling waters or maybe inject poison in the apples needs to be probed further.
Sorcery, folk magic, and witchcraft have a very long history. Most folk magic seems to have evolved from ‘sympathetic’ magic. Such ideas often overlapped with folk medicine or more widely known as the ‘old wives’ tales. Often these were used for curing purposes…for example it was long believed that for curing warts one needed to rub it with a toad to transfer that offending disease into that creature and then drowning it into the pond! However these harmless folk beliefs were later to become enmeshed with more dangerous and forcefully implemented system of beliefs about witches, which emerged in the witchcraft persecutions of 15th century Europe! Between 1500 and 1550 sharp changes occurred in the economic social political life of Europe! Series of Wars famines and climatic changes that hampered the lives of the people needed a scapegoat to blame. There were undue rise of population that needed a channel to control. And most importantly it was the women who came under the subjugation of men with increasing focus on the ‘sexual crimes’ that rose during the time under the Puritan improvisations.

At the end of the day witch history remains still an enigma in the common hearts although modern times takes witchcraft away from the myth of the malevolent hag or the devil-worshipping housewife. Its still a fantastic art full of legends and power in the hands of ordinary men and women, where the search for a personal god or inner spirituality takes over the long established religions of the world. However it will probably take time for Wicca to get rid of its evil twinkle!

the sociobiology of bitch

The word ‘bitch’ has had a long history to traverse, and on its way across cultures and epochs has taken new meanings, discarded old ones, turned over a new leaf, has been embraced by some, derided by others, some have shied away from using it while others have used it as their takiya kalam, it has instilled a sense of pride in some and some have been shamed by the very label. Bitch is undoubtedly one of the most versatile words in the English dictionary for it exhibits reptilian tendencies of changing its meaning and usage with varying contexts, the word dangerously oscillates between the derogatory and the complimentary and consequently humble recipients of this word are never too sure of how to deal with it.
I use the word regularly being unabashedly fond of it. Infact so enamored I am by this word that I have seldom shirked to advertise myself as one, and have used the label lovingly for my near and dear ones. (Except my parents of course, lines have to be drawn somewhere isn’t it?) bitch for me means everything in general and nothing in particular, if you would ask me to define a bitch, id be rather tautological and contend that a bitch is a bitch is a bitch !!!! But then again what is a bitch and why do I use the word when I love something that someone has done, when it’s nasty and exciting, or when I hate something and its equally nasty and exciting? Why do I use the word to denote a person, an act or simply as a full throated exclamation BITCH!!!! A loud thump of a noise is created from my mouth with my tiny eyes bulging out of its socket and I feel like it’s a job well done, I breathe easy and I feel lighter as if the pressure of the word against my chest has been eased, like I have excreted what refused to metabolize inside me and was desperate to come out and declare itself. Yes bitch is such a word, a word that’s powerful and finds itself being uttered in the most inappropriate situations without any precision of meaning. We all use it, most of us don’t know why we use it and are rather vague about what it means, and to put it philosophically it bridges important gaps between thought and speech.

What made me think so profoundly about this commonplace word??? Well let me narrate an incident that transpired in our beloved orkut, a rather favorite friend of mine, who got married recently and was honeymooning with her spouse had chosen to forget my existence on earth( mind you the debate that prancing around in the arms of a lover in the Swiss alps is heaven achieved doesn’t console me much). Much to my dismay she refused to answer my scraps for sometime which resulted in a large fonted entry in her scrapbook with the ever elusive word BITCH!!!! To which she still didn’t bother to respond, such is the power of newfound love and sex. To add to my woes her hubby saw the scrap, didn’t take it kindly and it culminated into their first fight, wherein the hubby insisted that no friend of hers had the RIGHT to call her wife a bitch, particularly someone who goes by the name witch in orkut!!!!( and is a man). Guess it pricked him at all the wrong places and I was asked to abstain from addressing my beloved friend in the same loving manner again. At a loss of my favorite word bitch I felt grossly inadequate; it took me less than a nanosecond to label the hubby himself a bitch!!!!

The word literally means a she dog. On googling the word I came upon an interesting site which provides clear cut distinctions between the male and female dogs. Male dogs are affectionate, exuberant, food motivated, attentive and aggressive. Cut to the human scene, men are affectionate too (of others wives), exuberant (in displaying their powers and prowess) food motivated (yes food for the stomach n libido!) attentive (to work and female anatomy no doubt) and aggressive (hyperactive balls!). Analogies like this fit well, and are ignored or taken for granted. The problem arises when we consider the bitch. Bitches are independent, stubborn, and territorial, reserved and have mood swings. Clearly in a patriarchal system such qualities have to be suppressed, rendered unnatural for being a woman entails being submissive, pliable, allowing men to treat them as their property, caring and displaying melodramatic emotions, (name it and they feel it). Thus a woman cannot and should not be a bitch. Lo behold if she ends up being one its bad news!!! No wonder the word bitch has been generously used alongside words like ‘slut’ ‘whore’ ‘easy lay’. Society commended that the women bitches had to be condemned. Not surprisingly today’s bitches were yesteryear’s witches and they met with terrible fates, burnt for being perverse for trying to create a place for themselves other than their man’s sacrosanct feet.

Clearly then when it came to the question of finding a voice and an identity in this unequal world, women especially the bra burning, chest thumping brigade decided to elevate the status of the bitch, they embraced the identity, they reveled in it, they united through it. Finally bitching and gossiping received it due status in the scheme of affairs. Obviously there are the puritans who still regard a bitch- woman as a bitch-dog and that is understood as not a very nice thing to aspire for.

Palpably bitch and bitching were emerging as female hegemonic traits challenging the hegemonic masculinity and its consort, the emphasized femininity. Obviously men had to save their balls, had to penetrate (the desire doesn’t expire till death) and encroach by subverting the power that was being associated with the feminist acceptance of the word bitch. What did they do? They gave birth to the male bitch, gay, effete and rather low in the masculine hierarchy, it all began in prisons, where prison bitch were men who were passive recipients (polite way of saying they were sodomised) of the desire of the more powerful or senior inmates, men are horny by nature, if they don’t get women, men of certain kinds would suffice, so carpe diem it was. So men didn’t even allow a women to be a bitch peacefully, such tyrannical usurpers of identity were never born. Even this did not satiate them so then emerged the trend of male gossip reputed to be as pernicious as its female counterpart and clearly the word bitch lost its sexual exclusivity, and since then the word has taken a plethora of meanings and can be used for everything and anything under the sun. so now there are male bitches , female bitches, sexy bitches, gay bitches, lovable bitches, sweet bitches, bitchy bitches, bitch bitches ( I mean the she dog) infact even life has become a bitch !!!! It’s fascinating, the uniqueness and adaptability this word is capable of, I won’t be surprised if a new bitch cult emerged worshipping the word bitch.

Well I think I have bitched enough, wagged my tail enough its time I bitch off!!!!
But before I do that id love to raise a toast or let’s just say a tail to all the self confessed bitches of the world. Stay a bitch and keep bitching!!!!!!
BY
ZAID AL BASET
© 2008 by Zaid

Carpets, Bhadohi and a Good Samaritan

I have no refuge in the world other than thy threshold.
There is no protection for my head

other than this door.

(couplet from persian poet, Hafez, inscribed on the famous 16th c, Ardabil carpet)

Image: The Ardabil Carpet, Persia, dated 946 AH. V&A Museum no. 272-1893. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

It was through my friend Altamash Ansari that i heard of the carpet town of Bhadohi in Uttar Pradesh, India. one of those charming mufassil towns of hindustan where the perso-islamic and indian cultural world melange so inextricably that you cannot easily distinguish where one ends and the other begins.
like the threads of the carpet which give Bhadohi its glory in the world.

image: The Flying Carpet by Viktor Vasnetsov (1880). Oil, canvas.

carpets are by common consent considered to be a central asian innovation. they were a necessity in the cold steppes where wandering shepherds after a days work needed warmth in the night. the floors in the tents would be too cold without a carpet, whether to offer prayers or sleep. hence arose, perhaps around the 6th c BC, the first carpets, jewelled dreams radiating heat. and a legend began that would soon spread across central asia, turkey, the balkans, persia, northern africa, india, spain, arabia. and from the time of the crusades, to the West.

image: Rug composition scheme

the carpets of Bhadohi offer a microcosm of this splendid history. the hues and fields of spring dreamt by scythians and iranis. the geometric world of eternal forms that passed on from Plato to Islamic philosophy, creating a passion for arabesques, interlocking lines and webs and rings that mirrored the seamless unity of God and his Word rendered in calligraphy and galicha, rather than mere copies of human or animal flesh. the indian penchant for curves and ornamentation, for making fabrics into rippling sculptures of air that made her cotton and silk fabrics famed in Rome and Baghdad and China, as the poem goes.

image: From the yarn fiber to the colors, every part of the Persian carpet is traditionally hand made from natural ingredients over the course of many months. This arduous process is shown in the Japanese/Iranian film Carpet of Wind, directed by Kamal Tabrizi.

Cosmoses, whole world of thought flowed into each other, of which, alas, we know still too little. my friend's surname is Ansari, according to him, a common surname adopted by new indian converts to islam from the weaving profession to honor the Arabian Ansaris who had helped protect the Prophet Muhammad during his flight from mecca to medina.
was adopting the name a marker of social mobility? what was the interaction zone of indian weavers with islamic identities? what are the forms of their community organization? did it differ from the earlier caste-occupation nexus?

personally, i found the indo-islamic world of qasbahs and muhallas too fascinating for words. the collective spirit of brotherhood that permeates them, the celebrations, the sense of bhaichara and qawm as they say in north india. how does it reflect in weaving patterns. in the main profession of Bhadohiyas? are special carpets for example woven for Muharram or Eid? are there folk songs associated with the process of weaving? what are the gender relations inscribed into all this?

image: A traditional rug weaver in Isfahan. Photo by Afshin Bakhtiar of Iran's Cultural Heritage Organization. Photo supplied by Zereshk

i would be really greatful if someone illumined me on any of these aspects i am ashamed to know nothing about.

meanwhile, Altu or Jaq ( you have read his poem in this blog before) tells me that the carpet industry in bhadohi is declining in the face of stiff competition from other countries, and inability to adopt to new capital intensive technologies. the poor artisans suffer especially, though the rich too are not exempt. Good samaritan that he is, he is trying to both mobilize people to market Bhadohi carpets better, and at the same time plans to start an educational initiative that will help the poor students of the town to get cheap education and thus lessen their dependence on the carpet manufacturing sector. we wish him best of luck and God's grace.

for further information, here is Altamash's orkut profile
http://www.orkut.com/Profile.aspx?uid=634026514532527442

and here the website of Bhadohi carpets
http://www.bhadohiinfo.com/

~~Scio Amo.

ps: don't you really really want to make fierce love to someone on a coarse purple carpet in an open meadow in front of the fire, nothing covering you but the moon above ? or is it jus me? :P

BAND OF WARRIORS ~~

when they see us,
they'll run for their lifes,
till the end they'll pay for their lies,
again theres a battle to fight,
gathered for the sound and the might


now we'll fight for our freedom
fight for the kingdom,
the fights with steel ,
kill all of them the blood is our seal,
fight till the last enemy is dead,
their blood that we have gladly shed,

to no man i shall kneel ,
for their blood is on my steel ,
running from the blood to our soul,
to the might in our lore ,
i swear by the brothers who stand before me,
we'll win this and be free !!!!!

Rules rules vicious rules

Much as we wouldn't like to confine you in a cellar, and wait all sooty and grimy for Prince Charmant, there are some rules you really must follow. or else...........:P

now who gets prince charming, huh?

1. please label your posts. (this applies even to those pomo queens who hate to be categorized). and as far as possible, try to place your posts within the existing categories, instead of inventing new ones. to prevent the no. of posts to rise to jonah's whale proportions.

2. those using the bohemian id, sign with your personal id.

3. use lots and lots of pics in your posts. most humans have attention spans shorter than a mayfly's life, so........big graphics, big anatomical parts, u know the routine to catch your dumb pretty mate's attention.

4. post a lot on scandals. humans love to hear about vices even more than to practise them. so if u did something really bad, u know u can confess to big daddy... :D

mea culpa, mea culpa, whip me momma, mea maxima culpa

5. i cant think of anything else. if u think up need for any more rules, do tell me, i'll add them.

6. blog authors are encouraged to spank each other if anyone infringes these rules.

7. this post will be regularly updated.

~~Scio amo.

Demons, nightmares and St Anthony

Since giving up on the hope of any immediate messianic advent last december, and moreover achieving a degree of emotional independence from my innermost desires on turning 23 this 18th of April, my days have become calmer, but my nights equally turbulent. there has not been a night that i have not dreamt the most fearful nightmares, seeing strange people, known and unknown, in stranger shapes, all trying to attack me, kill me. and i am always on the run. fighting back.

when i thought that i have become independent, less panting for a rock, a savior, a sword to become more self-dependent, more secure, have i only in effect driven down my insecurities and fears into a cave from where they come out in the night to chase me? am i becoming a classic case of repression? when in earlier years, i had always lived in a perpetual darkness, and never ceased from confessing to myself my solitude, my dreams had always been peculiarly sunny and troublefree.

or have i achieved some real progress in maturity? (though everyone around me says i am too much of a kid, that i know nothing) and the nightmares are merely a sign of growing up? or are they those feared incubi and succubi, those demons of the night that medieval fables are so replete with, who come and tempt and rape you in the night? i once dreamt a few days back i am a bird fighting a snake. what does it mean?

my thoughts dwell with St Anthony the great (c.251-356 AD), considered as one of the founding fathers of monasticism. he retreated into a desert of Egypt for meditation and was there chased by all manners of horrible visions and demons, phantoms in the form of wild beasts, wolves, lions, snakes and scorpions, the devil beating him mercilessly, or sheer laziness, boredom and indifference.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_the_Great

The temptation(s) of St Anthony, as they are well known in theology and art history, have been much favored as a subject matter for artists, from at least the 10th c AD. famous depictions include those by Hieronymus Bosch (ca. 1505), whose images are in this post, and Salvador Dalí.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Temptation_of_St._Anthony

i am no saint. yet the human mind has its perversities, its conspiracies no less fertile in a saint as in a sinner. and every night, my closest kin become murderers, chasing me through open fields and narrow lanes, temptresses run after me with knives, and i am running and running till i wake up sweating.... i am afraid to write more for fear that my words will now take human form and chase me... Desire mingles with fear, and fear with desire.

never have i loved the day so much as now.

~~by Scio Amo

Afterthoughts of an Erstwhile Collegian

The rabid ambience was yet to wear away when I first introduced myself to the blood-curdling stories of the Bourbon dynasty. The Lust, the lustre, the greed, the grandeur, the horror and the honour. Smoked screen blurring vision.

Random thoughts on the part of this ambler were never entertained by the republican university. What they hoot for is method…to succeed…or to elude success…no cynicism.

Fragments of muffled thoughts, philistine parchments of prosaic paranoia (like this one); a multi-womb woman jutting out of a carnival of colors…all these were essential components of Dali’s creation. And he entertained and provoked simultaneously.

And Bohemian Rhapsody was indeed the cynical confession of a murderer, who might have had his wife infected with AIDS. The theme to all the disparaged teachnicians’ collective biopic.

What do all these add up to? The question mark as in De La Mare’s Listener? Or the tridentical drawing along the Nazcan hills? Maybe a little bit of frustration over some clichéd midnight coffee. The perfect Bohemian setting marred by a glimmer of despair. A welcome to the next experience. Journey of the sojourner has just began, a pause does not really mean a thing. The piper has to be ready at the gates of dawn, in duty clothes, with a pen and a paean.

No pun, no fun.

An Oldman's Ode to friends

Awful but awesome

On the road of my edgy existence,
A number of friends I fenced.

Some of them were awe-inspiring dopers,
And they slept on grass like candid lovers.

Few of them were moderate and bookish,
But they were wild about booze and fish.

We sustained our whole days with fags,
And passed the deserted night on rags.

The moment comes and the moment goes,
A few of them died and some of them I lose.

All my friend were awful but awesome,
If they were here in this life of lonesome,

Together we can sit and gossip of old times,
And in the sky the sun of our love again shine.

Jaq

Cupid’s Wings and Cobweb Rings

View of A Wonderland - Easter 2008

Currently listening to: Password –Ludovico Einaudi / Turin Brakes

Currently reading: Revision notes and Catcher In The Rye

Currently staring at: The laptop screen / a postcard of Keukenhof

As I am writing this, I’m thinking if I ought to write a draft(but that defeats the point of writing down your thoughts, surely it all becomes editted?), or be prepared to rewrite this again, or if I should, as every true writer(so I’m told in English lessons), be planning this.

Evidently, having done none of the above, I merely intend this post to be an accumulation of a number of thoughts that have occurred to me during inappropriate moments during the day.

My bus journey consisted of an unsuccessful attempt to do some work, and fed up of the music I was listening to (Matchbook Romance, if you’re interested), I started doodling – not pictures of insane animals, but words.

Words which were doodling about inside me.

Strange words, but what they mean to me is different from what they mean to you. I see good as good, you may think of good as ‘well, it’s not bad I suppose’.

Words are meant to explain, yet do they? Or perhaps stringing together words simply adds a new thought onto the long thread of thoughts. Except in science you could argue, but I’m in no mood for science at the moment.

So if words, the medium of expression, cannot always express, what can? The quest for the perfect word, regardless of how big a thesaurus one uses, is elusive. Or maybe it isn't, apart for from the likes of me.

A few more thoughts, which I hope I will be communicate to you in a more succinct and understandable way. I met a few words and pictures which got a point across quite well. The unavoidable headlines of the cyclone in Burma; the ravaged families, trees swooning all over, the Monks (in my opinion, facing the same angst as their Tibetan counterparts), the pride(or rather the arrogance and ignorance) of the government.

Of course, when one says Burma, one cries ‘Aung San Suu Kyi’ and is hastily reminded about her fight for restoration of democracy and human rights in her homeland. I’m not about to go on some holier-than-thou fest and start writing about the Dalai Lama and Michelle Bachelet, but you do wonder what would happen if the media did not exist. It’s acknowledged that we can’t look at the world through rosy-tinted lenses because of the media, but I wonder on what we are missing out on – perhaps we should be seeing the world through grimier lenses than the ones we use. I think we all need to make a trip to the opticians.

A final thought in my kneaded post. Today was a day of many ‘lasts’ for me – my last English lesson ( the highlight – hi-five-ing Mr M), my last Geography lesson (fabulous cake) and rather sadly, my last Classical Greek lesson ( booohooo). Maybe we should make it a day of beginnings as well – how about, for a change, we remember the distressed even when the cameras are elsewhere, for a change we try and express ourselves using words which make sense to us, and not try and fit into a stereotypical mould that society perceives is ‘right’. Do something.

How about you donate some money to aid the victims of Burma’s cyclone, contribute to a blog regarding it (the spoken word is a powerful tool, after all), or maybe for a change you do what you want, not what people expect(just don’t end up doing a ‘Dido’ – we wouldn’t want to see you dead), but let’s not see Cupid’s wings in cobweb rings.

So there you go, a rambling of things that you do not even care about, thoughts with no substance, a babbling of language that merely wasted time, insignificantly significant in the myriad of this place we call home - a post which I thought would be amazing… but the hypocrite in me comes out – I’m yet to use the words I really want to use – but it’s a good start.

UB, flamenco-ing in the aroma of jasmine and tuberose

La la la Vie en Rose, Being Gay was never so chic

what is it about gay men and wit?

I was reminded of that rather forcefully while coming across this fabulous blog. (dont ask me though how i (s)trolled upon it, don't kiss, don't tell :D) http://bedstory.blogspot.com/

called Bedtime Stories, it of course has nothing to do with what you might think from its name. Unless that is your going to bed fanstasies involved nasty furry wolves heavily into whips and cuffs, you tied up all helplessly with satin kerchiefs,wearing nothing but a smile...

naa,my thoughs digress. :P

i think i have found a kindred soul. a Malaysian gay doctor whose wit is laced with the same undercurrent of s&m (sadomasochism for those not in the know) that turns me on so well. Wonder if that gives me a fluid sexuality. So chic......Havta ask my psychostudying amiga :D

but back to gay men and humour. Oscar wilde is only the most prominent name.

maybe you laugh when you cant cry, wear masks. somewhere in the closet or even out of it, having to act all the time, a form of self reflexive humor comes in, internalizing but also challenging the stereotypes, constantly producing a self only to dissolve it in laughter again.seeing everyhting bent, curved, refracted through prisms, rather than in straight linear

Image: Keller cartoon from the Wasp of San Francisco depicting Oscar Wilde on the occasion of his visit there in 1882

mydadbelieveditsoibelieveit narratives.

it's not jus bout being gay. its bout having to constantly subvert a reality that marginalozes you, even as it makes you feel special under the sun.

the ecclesiastes got it wrong. Everything IS new under the sun.

but too much seriousness too might be severely injurious lol so let's just enter into the amazing world of our naughty Malaysian doctor. where luscious saronged slaves just wait to be cajolled into the pouting sneer of werewolves, and hot heaving ruffians drive you mad in musky decadence. la la being Gay was never so fun. wink!

Slainte :D

~~by Scio Amo, or sanctus romanus lupus as some of you know me better

howwwwwwwwwwwwwl.

Trying to concentrate on the cultural calender of calcutta prompts me of a stage performance three winters back.Not a lot of people were aware when the Tony Award winning actress and playwrite Sarah Jones performed at Calcutta.Body-snatching the immigrants she was depicting in Waking the American Dream, Jones shuttles from being Lorraine a Jewish grandmother to Juan rose a Mexican American,Mohammed a Pakistani and so on and whips up a performance that strips down the Amercian imperialistic endeavors at her sarcastic best.The recurring highlights on the spread of 'Islamophobia' which has become the main weapon in US hands and replaced Socialism as the new shadowy ideology to be confronted with and shattered in the post Cold War scenario...to the far more interesting develpments in the sphere of gender issues within the country Jones hops from being a feeble lady to a strong brawny man , to a mother shocked on hearing the homosexual preference of her daughter[later she accepts her and her new lover assuring herself ,atleast she has found love in the love-less eras].Heres a passage from the play that will focus on the Vietnamese 'dream':

A monologue by Sarah Jones
Bao Viet-Dinh:(young Vietnamese-American man, nondescript "standard American" accent, wearing an open black kung fu shirt)

Peace, how is everybody doin'. My name is Bao. This poem right here is untitled.
(He steps back from the microphone for a moment, eyes closed, fists held up to his forehead, in serious slam/performance poet preparation mode. He then steps back to the mic with fiery delivery.)
This is not an
Asian lotus blossom
Love poem
This is not an ode
To Bruce Lee or Dustin Nguyen
Or a celebration of my
Midwestern ... poet ... cadence
This is not an authentic immigrant
Experience piece
For PBSIt's not that Vietnamese-AmericanHonor student
Returns to Saigon with his Anglo wife
Brought to you by Toyota and LaChoy
This is not a special presentation
Right after Nova
And before Frontline
Sponsored by viewers like you
This is not a teary-eyed reunion story
A video diaryFor MTVAbout finding my roots
And then eating them
This is not a model
Minority poem
About hardworking
Straight "A" students
Who find freedom on TRL
This is not
The part where I get drunk and sing
Folksongs for my white Frat Brothers
Do my best impression of Long Duk Dong
Or win an Oscar
For Crouching Tailor Hidden Drycleaner
This is not the scene where I share ancient Chinese secrets
I'm Vietnamese, remember?

Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius Loyola

Growing up in a Jesuit school, somehow that word never conjured up for me the dread cowled monks of popular fiction, all ready to pounce upon the lily faced lady and lily livered gentleman of honest Albion. in school, i always supported the Spanish Armada (evil me teehee) , and while that might have been a little schoolboy excess, i do see the Catholics more as benign golden hearts than fanatics with horrid bonfires of heretics as their favourite pastime. (making a kebab of Sullen P, that guy so jealous of me...hmmm

nhaa...just a thought O:-)

but honestly, there's something about the Jesuits. the Church Militant. or rather, the soul militant, armed to fight against demons, human and infernal, often there is not even a difference. and our own temptations.

trust me, i have had plenty of inner demons to deal with.

may be that's why my sudden urge to enter the world of the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius Loyola. a book not as merely something to be read, but to be lived. a door to a dark bipolar universe.

just imagine if the armada won. the virgin queen would probably have lost her virginity to a gallant Hispanic hottie. and we would be reading the exercises instead of some thoroughly insipid Wordsworth rambling about flowers I couldn't care a tad about

sigh.....

and a link for those who are fighting as many horned darknesses as me. hope you get your Saviour soon.

http://www.nwjesuits.org/JesuitSpirituality/SpiritualExercises.html

Scio Amo.

Bohemia in Calcutta

oh no! not another blog.





Before you groan another victorian sigh, let us first tell you why this salon is like no other. it does not belong to anyone. Voila. Ca suffit?

Image:Jean François de Troy (Paris 1679 - Rome 1752), Reading from Molière around 1728, Oil on canvas, 72.4 x 90.8 cm; Collection late Marchioness of Cholmondeley, Houghton. Source : Wikipedia.

in a world where everything belongs to someone, one hearkens back for a little common, a meadow where all can graze. or if you would be more urbane, a little parlor, a recreation in 21 st century virtuality of an enlightenment salon. where you can jus sit down, flirt, gossip, write down what you want others to read. a little bohemian. in Calcutta.





If you amble down the streets of Calcutta, little snatches of distant tunes come to you. not of all awwwww thats me of course :D

at a ripe ole 23

it makes sense. the city of aintels, we say, that strange species that feeds on conversation. Adda. we need to talk, to get together, to communicate. otherwise we'll be dead.





this is a forum for jus that. you, me, our friends, our friends to be, we hope to conect with the world. on the wings of just a hope. everyone has closet dreams. why don't we talk about it?





come in, sweetheart. just talk bout what is important to you. arts. literature. music. your poems and paintings. you.





come home.





Scio Amo. you will find me in orkut, the web community.


mail: scio.immortal@google.com