Posted: Dec 31, 2007 by Hanedin in
3


Pitter Patter.
Splitter Splatter.
I am not enjoying this, one bit.
Not even a tiny weenie bit.
End it.
Just choke it.
Splitter Splatter.
Blip.
End.

Vrrooom

Posted: Oct 27, 2007 by Hanedin in
0

Dropping unused condoms into moth-eaten, rust-eaten, weather-eaten and generally chomped upon trunk of broken and dejected fords.
Yup, go figure.

***

That car was highly cool? And old ford, that once must have rumbled and growled with intense ferocity. It probably must have seen a thousand people who touched the plush interiors and the smooth finishing of the dashboard with awe-struck fingertips.

It must have disdainfully overtaken so many cars, the thousand ugly duckling 800's and the potbellied ambassadors? It might even have crashed into a couple, scraping the paint here and there.

Paint, that brings me to my next querry. Wait, not querry, not thought? What then, can this simultaneous moment of grammatically incongruous prosaic spontaneity continue without the right word.

That's when Kaya drops from somewhere behind the mass of purple nerves on the left hand side top corner of the cranium ( ;) )

Kaya: You fool just go along with it? What color was the car? And don't give me bullshit about ruining your moment, the article sucks. And you know it? It's too floral! It's too vague. Just answer the god damned question, what color was the car?

Er, it was white.

Kaya: Er?

Too rusty to tell?
It probably was white, I can't be too sure though. I will ask Ylva, she knows these things...

But the point is, it was a wonderful car.
At least that's what people keep saying.
Was this? What that? Was it? Was what?

What's with the was-es ladies and gentlemen. The car is still there, in all it's moth-eaten, uni-wipered, ripped-tired glory.
And no, I am not being sarcastic. The car IS wonderful. How many cars do you know that have in addition to old, torn Tommy Hilfiger underwear, a sack of what is hopefully sand, a single unused condom in it's gaping trunk. It's all vrrooom. So bugger off!

And I did not even get to the cool cobwebs inside, let alone the funkadellic glass front headlight thingy.

I love that car, I love the way it has etched itself a nice little place in my head. Somewhere near Kaya's chocolate house.

Funkadellic.

I am not really surprised. Oxymoron, sigh.

Posted: Oct 7, 2007 by Hanedin in
2


Your Score: A Bit Of Both



You are 50% Calvin and 50% Hobbes




Calvin & Hobbes, like a scruffy yin and yang, are in perfect balance within you. Like Calvin, you're weird, a bit insecure, and can be a trouble-maker. But like Hobbes, you're down to earth and sensitive. It's a risk to say it here, after just a ten question test, but I'll bet you're smarter than most. Both Calvin and Hobbes are crafty, clever characters, and any one made from equal parts of each is a force to be reckoned with.




Link: The Calvin Or Hobbes Test written by gwendolynbooks on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

A ten ruppe note dipped in sauce

Posted: Oct 4, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

Beep Beep.
Gtalk? Roadrunner?
Acnce accidents. Surprises..It's funny how people don't realize when somebody talks about them. They read it and at times they comment on it, saying the exact same thing you want to tell them. It's all so bizzare at times.
There is ColorPlus packet hanging from the door. I like the picture on it? Pants I think, nice digitally enhanced image.
Things have changed so much, it's bizarre. Simply because people keep seeking change, and they see change in things that haven't changed. And things which change are ignored unceremoniously. I feel like reading MIL now? Probably the thought of ceremony reminded me of Ambai?
Fire and Hunger? Sex and Food?
Bones wreathed in pain.

Beep Beep.
The roadrunner and the coyote.
I liked the coyote. I always thought he would catch the Roadrunner and gobble her down before she could do something. I mean that's why I kept watching it.
And talking of cartoons, A cartoon I love now and disliked earlier- The Adams Family. I love 'em. Mortitia with her cold icy face. Which was so perfect, the black of her dress and the black of her eyes that melted into the night. And the aquamarine Lurch. And how could I forget - Cousin It and Uncle Fester.
I love now.
Insane butterflies I tell you, jagged wings dipped in bloody elbow-sauce. Cartilage chunks as dressing. Gross at times, horribly morbid. But strangely despite appearances, never forced.
Strange writings, forced poetry, sacrificing emotion in favor of crystal showpieces. They all lie shattered now, at the roadrunners feet.
No tears as she goes. beep. beep.
Don't you feel like watching Kill Bill. I remember how Ann kept on repeating and reiterating the eyeball squished beneath someone's feet. But what I like the most about Kill Bill is the song. Bang Bang by Nancy Sinatra.

I wish I had known guy who lived in those hills and listened to billy joel all night long, sharing his own drink of loneliness.

Bang Bang..My baby shot me down

Drip drip. Bang bang.

Posted: Sep 29, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

At times I feel so utterly helpless. No, not helpless. Never helpless.

Ugh, Linkin Park. Late night, tunes that seem drenched in Nicotine. Beats that I am sure were thought off in some dark room. Not unlike my own. The light of a lonely computer falling onto someone, wet hair falling across his face. Half covering his head. Eyes blurred with the effort of fighting back sleep, eyes clinched so tight that tears come out at times. Paekhana, it means shit. How would someone know that it doesn’t? I could lie?

It’s all so strangely relatives. At times I just want to compress my thoughts, especially the ones that want me to chose to manipulate, and then put it in a pill and then just throw it into some caustic concoction. Maybe I would watch the fumes come out? Maybe they would be different colors?

One like rum in winters, one like the blood leaking out of a corpse’s mouth. Or maybe the color of someone’s hair. How would it make a difference though. They would be fumes?

Proof of annihilation? Unimportant?

What do you do when you want someone this much?

Could you kill for her?

Yes

Could you in a fit frenzied frustration rip a dagger out of your robes and kill someone?

Probably

Wouldn’t it matter if the other one gets hurt?

In those seconds of blinded rage, unfettered anger? No. I feel free, or is it the complete opposite? Which one is it?

Don’t you seek violence Kaya asked me once?

And my answer was- Of course? Why shouldn’t I?

Why not?

I deserve the pain; I deserve to inflict the pain. The more the better.

What’s the deal with a fair fight anyway? Blood invisible, non existent thing?

Saala Chutiya! It’s such crap. A fight that is fought fair is not a fight. It’s just a random pre-arranged pseudo sparring session.

Why do you want to fight?

And if the answer is because I want to inflict pain, then does it really matter whether it’s fair or not?
Does it?

I keep asking myself?

All I know is if someone’s coming to hurt me or hurt her? I shall not fight fair, fair isn’t even the question. Don’t get me wrong, she can take care of herself. Better than me in fact, but I will. I shall rip, I shall tear, I shall lacerate, I shall wound, I shall hurt. I will. Fuck the shalls, all of them I will.

Linkin Park stops droning, what track is this any way. Instrumental Remixes? Sound like trance or house I like.

Change of Music, random Christina Aguilera song.

I need to stop objectifying people. They matter, who am I to think of them as incapable of thought, action or whatever it is?

Who am I? What’s so great about me any way? Fine, I could fib through your teeth and get off work early or get attendance, or even get so and so to fall in love with me, put out and blah. Does all this matter, fine you think you can write? What’s there to be so cocky about? You hardly know what’s going on in your own head? How the hell do you expect to write? Fine people love you?
But really think about it?

Do you deserve it.

I know you won’t answer that question.

Ugh, you know you won’t.

Stop talking in third person you fucker, Kaya whispers.

Me, all me.
Always me.

Too scared to let someone else precede that.

Ever.

Bang Bang.

It’s over.

One gun shot.

One bullet.

One small hole, preferably in the skull, bang in the centre.

A round red hole? Like a bindi or a setting sun.

Blood leaking out, slowly like honey dripping off the edge of the round dabur jar? Or will spew out in lazy spurts?

And of course, the smile.

The creepy smile. The one with horny eyes, and my tongue flickering over my lips.

Except that it’s different now, the eyes lay glassy and glazed. Dead is the word. The smile is frigid in it’s intensity. And warm blood is leaking out of my mouth. Coming out of the space between my teeth.

Slowly, slowly.
Drip drip. Bang bang.

It’s over.

The car has stopped.

Posted: Sep 20, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

The kind of wicked rage that is fuelled inside of you, the kind that you do not know

about. You try and control the direction, but you can't. Simply because you can not

detect the source of it.
One swollen lip, could be anything. An allergy, medication, eddie murphie jeans. It

doesn't matter, I want to bite it. Feel the warm blood. Taste it.
Wet keys on a dusty keyboard, all in all a rather muddy affair. They type out words far

truer than you thought you would ever let your eyes see.
Reveling, gleaming, grinning almost in your own weakness. The weakness within you

that does not let you trust things. It's a weakness you see in yourself, so you assume it in others.
Don't trust. Since when did you trust. Trust, use it like a knife...one decorated with stones

dripping in the blood of the owner. Use it to stab it and sheath it with human flesh.
The blood, always the blood, warm, pulsating, alive.
Now here...and now.

Explode.

Posted: Sep 16, 2007 by Hanedin in
2

Emotion, pent up. Collected in the empty jars of my mind, slowly pickle. Until they ferment and explode. Each one of them, mingling with the acidic hues of thought. They coagulate into little bubbles of explosives.
Each one seethes underneath the surface of my skin. Each one flows, into the next.
my body reacts, violently. Obviously. Arms flail around with the characteristic energy of purposeless abandon. My feet writhe as I lay collapsed on the tiny bed in my room. My head jerks violently. Bangs against the hard wooden edge.
The bubbles burst.
Muscles still taut, I lie subdued on the bed. Subdued maybe, but not passive.
Never.

Strangers in the Night

Posted: Sep 9, 2007 by Hanedin in
2

Central Park, not Perk. Central Park in a very no-i-am-not-obsessed with friends way.
It's evening, the kind of evening where the sky moults into colors that are somewhere between molten chocolate and alcoholic pinks and purples. You know, the colors that most people see in narcotic hues.

Well, anyway it was evening. Slight, cool Wind. Bare feet and callouses, all of them caressing the matted grass. Slightly overgrown, and cool. Relief.

One lies down on the grass, and looks up. Ice cream in the meanwhile is dutifully dropped into your mouth and then you see a bat, one bat, two bats, now three and now more.
Yes it's going to be night.

The sky seems to have welded of the previous happy colors, the hendrixian pinks and the purples have now been replaced with a more Sinatran darkness. Beautiful in it's ambiguity. One moment gray, one moment a cool midnight blue, another minute the rosy shade of blood spilled in the dark.

It's night time. Had it not been Delhi, I could probably have seen more stars. Maybe half a dozen behind the cloud that looked like a lizard lazing in the sun. Maybe another behind the one that looked like a half-eaten pizza.

It doesn't matter though. It's night time, and what counts is that I can see stars. Maybe only a couple, but I see stars.

As I lie on the matted grass that grew unceremoniously on the slope, I laugh at the sky as the stars shine down.

And I roll.

Posted: Aug 29, 2007 by Hanedin in
1




House of the Rising Sun

Upar!


Fuck, another one.


I love this one, evening. Kallol. Lovely shot don't you think.



Peek-a-Boo


CP in Sepia. Clouds. I like.


Half of Indrani, Nice and all.


Posted: Aug 20, 2007 by Hanedin in
0

Haven't I had enough.
They all pretend to know what they are talking about. Assured faces crumbling like burnt paper. Haven't I had enough. It's strange when you realize that putting your head on someone's lap and then just looking at birds in the sky can be so exhilarating.
At times I want to rip some cables, cop some wires..add in a few a severed copper bits. I wish I could just let go, and let it rip. But these rips of mine, well at least let me call them that are never more than a few centimeters across. A mosquito's bite is more lethal than that. A pocket that echo's like the inside of a skull.
I wonder what it would have been had I been born some other day.
Maybe one day I shall just kill myself.
A fancy death too, dying in a bath of kerosenes that is lit.
Ugh! Mosquitos.

Hanedin Screams

Posted: Aug 15, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

If I walked through a street,
a street in a black and white memory,
the kind that has rusted with age,
I wonder, would I look to my sides?
Look at windows that bleed in the darkness
And empty rooms that stink off rotting thought.
Would I look at the rooms where coins jingle merrily
as a soul is raped under the gaze of my salivating brothers.
Or would I want to burn this memory,
that festers like a sore on the underside of my foot?
My thoughts are interrupted,
I hear a voice say, "Does it hurt?"
Does it?

Posted: Aug 4, 2007 by Hanedin in
0

Joy: Joy:

:D

Jake Shimabukuro plays

Posted: Aug 3, 2007 by Hanedin in
0

Jagged Edges

Posted: Jul 22, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

Can you buy me a dream?
A real one, one that pulses and breathes like a living being.

Yes I think, I can.

Could you get me one, when you go to the market. And don't forget a pretty little cage and a really really sharp knife. So, that the cuts are perfect.
We don't want jagged edges do we?

Posted: Jul 21, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

Hanedin: Why doesn't she believe me?

Kaya: Maybe she believes you? But how does she know that you aren't fooling yourself? Why should she think that you have changed?

Hanedin: She shouldn't. I hope she doesn't. I don't think I have changed. I don't think that she would want me to change.

Kaya: Then what would she want?

Hanedin: She would want me to do, what I think is right.

Kaya: And what may that be?

Hanedin: To be there?

Kaya: With her...

Hanedin: With or Without, it is not important. I need to be there. That is all I need, that is all I desire.

Kaya: You are a coward.

Hanedin: Yes, hence I am practical.

Kaya: Weirdo!

***

Kaya begun as a person, now she has become a part of me. She keeps me sane at times.
I probably would not have published this, had I not been so sleep deprived. I have an espanol paper tomorrow, I shall flunk it. Sigh, but then I did well in my exam. I am pleased. As punch I think...

Suicide Note

Posted: Jul 11, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

I wanted to believe you would win?
The black raven's song, a caress, shoddy shades of clotting blood.
The Bottle, broken like shattered dreams.
The trembling heart. Closed my eyes.
Did not wish to see. Lived in an illusion.
Some thoughts, invented. Placed carefully. Built a new world of intangible thoughts.
I wanted to believe.

**
Inspired by the song- Suicide Note by Johnette Napolitano.

Posted: Jul 8, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

Have you ever wanted to kill someone.
No, wait.
Let me rephrase that...have you ever wanted to hurt someone...see that person in pain.
Oh! So much pain...
Have you ever wanted to feel the panicked pulse of someone's throat while your calloused fingers force themselves mercilessly. Driving every iota of life-saving oxygen out of their system.
Have you ever wanted to just let the caustic hate rise up within you, the kind of animalistic hatred that would allow you to sink your teeth into someone's throat, and rip it apart. The kind that would allow you to feel the blood gush out onto your willing teeth while you smiled at the expression in the eyes of the dying man.
Have you ever wanted to explain to a man patiently and explicitly exactly how you shall make him beg for death, while you tortured him...slowly.
Have you ever wanted to feel the tantalizing pleasure of doing such a thing?

***

I don't want anyone to comment on this piece.

Iron Maiden - Fear Of The Dark (Live @ Rock In Rio 2001)

Posted: Jul 7, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

This song, particularly this version is very important for me. I shall explain soon.

Bam Bam Speaketh

Posted: Jul 5, 2007 by Hanedin in
10

Your Porn Star Name Is...

Bam Bam



Bam Bam. The Thadki, I like. Bam Bam, Bam Bam Bam. Reminds me of the Flintstones though...

You Are 64% Evil

You are very evil. And you're too evil to care.
Those who love you probably also fear you. A lot.


My My...I am?

How You Are In Love

You take a while to fall in love with someone. Trust takes time.

You give completely and unconditionally in relationships.

You need your space and privacy. You don't like to be smothered.

You love your partner unconditionally and don't try to make them change.

You are fickle and tend to fall out of love easily. You bounce from romance to romance.


This was really dumb? A bouquet?? Red Roses, White Roses? What? Huh? What?


You Are 98% Tortured Genius

You totally fit the profile of a tortured genius. You're uniquely brilliant - and completely misunderstood.
Not like you really want anyone to understand you anyway. You're pretty happy being an island.



I don't know what to say? I love being smart?

You Can Make 94% of Your Crushes Fall in Love With You

Admit it, you can seduce practically anyone. And sometimes you try just for fun.
You're a total heartbreaker that knows when to play it cool.
You are the type of person people go completely lovesick over. Just use your powers for good, okay?


Sighs all around. Beer on me.


Your Famous Movie Kiss is from Cruel Intentions

"I'm the only girl you can't have, and it kills you."


I love this movie. And the kiss, my my. What can I say.


Your Personality Is Like Acid

A bit wacky, you're very difficult to predict.
One moment you're in your own little happy universe...
And the next, you're on a bad trip to your own personal hell!


I have done this before. Me thinks...


You Are a Martini

There's no other way to say it: you're a total lush.
You hold your liquor well, and you hold a lot of it!


I have never had a Martini. I must.




Your Vampire Name Is...



Raphael of Pain




I am bored now. Blood Break!

Wonderful Tonight

Posted: by Hanedin in Blahs:
2

He was driving back home. He did not even know why he went back, nothing really awaited him there. His house seemed to sense his loneliness and claw at him.

He wished he had her , but most of all he wished he had told her how wonderful she had looked the night she drove away.

Conjurer

Posted: Jul 4, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs:
3

Anyone can write a story.
So the little boy tried. He wrote and conjured a tale about happiness and magic, tinted with magical shades of love.
And now the little boy has grown up.
As he looks for the story, he realizes that anyone can write a story.
Only now his words reverberate in third-person.

Planet Telax

Posted: Jul 1, 2007 by Hanedin in
3

He felt like a new man. A brand new man, squeaky clean. Each part of him fresh and clean with the kind of cleaniness that no amount of polishing can endow in something old. No, he definitely felt new. More alive in a way.

Maybe it was the way the sun was carving it's way through the cloud early in the morning before the oppressive heat gets to you. Maybe it's way the tendrils of steam slither their way up from his cup of morning coffee to greet him. There was just something that he couldn't really put his finger on.

It's all different now. His words no longer scribble and tremble with an unacknowledged sense of hopelessness. Neither do they overflow with the gushing, diabetic, pink happiness that bollywood prophesises and is normally associated with the first person. His words, they seem to have found themselves, just like what he would like to think...He had done.

It had rained the night before. He had watched as he lay on his bed, the water as it mingled with the rays of the incandescent streetlight, forming a glorious shower of diamonds. The morning smelled of rain; As he twirled his finger absent-mindedly and sipped his coffee. He realized that he was alive.

He was alive, bursting with things he wanted to do. Desires that he must fulfill, things to experience, places to explore. He was alive and there was so little time and so much to do.

The phone rang, (breaking the far away soft hue of the radiohead song playing in his room in the other side of the house) he was glad.

Posted: Jun 28, 2007 by Hanedin in
3

Maybe I wasn't supposed to see it.
But it was there; the wound.
Right there, where you couldn't miss it. Strategically placed and covered with grime and pus. I could not miss it. Maybe it should hurt, maybe it does. Nestled in the milky white of a truth you have always carefully avoided.
It should hurt.
But it doesn't really hurt, more like a numb realization that comes with pained acceptance.
But the question is, if you know about it then why do you stay?
It can't be amusement. No, not that.
Why do you entertain me as I delude myself. Weave and whirl illusory patterns around me while I keep sliding downwards on a sloping surface.
What do you see?
Or
What do you wish you did see?
But of course, I must not know.

Posted: Jun 13, 2007 by Hanedin in
1

The blog shall be silent henceforth. Unless otherwise specified. Indefinitely.

Guitar Instrumentals.

Posted: Jun 10, 2007 by Hanedin in
1






Orgasmic and all, more to be added.

Pink Floyd

Posted: Jun 6, 2007 by Hanedin in
2

:D

Ramblings

Posted: Jun 3, 2007 by Hanedin in
2

Fiction.
I make it all up. One story after another, piled into an instant and then another. She said I could do something. Absolute and the abstract. Dialectics?Duality?
Maybe someday the boy who lives in the floor above me shall read something in a book that I might have absent-mindedly scratched. And being an avid Agatha Christie fan he shall concoct a weird murder story out of it and then obsess over it. Never willing to admit the entire thing to be a mere figment of his imagination?
Maybe someday I shall write the title for something and then write the piece? Maybe I shall look around me when I cross the road. Maybe one day I shall realize that everything I wrote was for someone and I never had the courage to admit it.
But then Maybe's don't really matter.
It's not even a true word, hitch-hiking on two other words. Incomplete and complete at the same time. What a horrible way to live your life. Forcefully clubbing two things like two colors. Each unable to melt into each other, thus obliterating their identity and yet not forming a new one. What a horrible thing to do? Blue and Red, not willing to mix and not willing to separate.
Maybe people important to me will die soon. Maybe they shall cease to be important before they die. Maybe I shall wish for such a thing to happen in order to dull the pain.
So many maybe's...they shall not mean a thing. Because tomorrow is a new day, but unlike celine dion I do not think it shall be such a beautiful day, the sun shall not rise with the promise of a new tomorrow and bathe us in the rays of golden optimism. I shall not believe in something that redundant. No I shall do no such thing.
Tomorrow is but another day, hot...humid...uncomfortable. Unsatisfactory, a struggle though you might chose to not admit it. Every second, each instant. It determines shades of your life. Aargh, we are all the same colour though arent we??

Yay!

Posted: May 25, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs:
2


I saw!
Yay!
Purple Sunbird...

Sigh.

Posted: May 18, 2007 by Hanedin in
3

The knowledge of knowing that a magazine like Maxim can rate Lindsay Lohan as the hottest woman in the world and finding this book.
More than I can take.




It's more than I can take.

Notches

Posted: May 7, 2007 by Hanedin in
4

Let's all just get stuck in an endless traffic jam. The kind where car after car just coagulates with time. Carrying faceless, nameless cadavers like you and me. Scurrying away at ten kilometers per hour for a few seconds, like a mouse with an infected ankle.
On your left is the woman who is late and has to reach home 'cause she hasmake food for her family. She isn't tired she tells herself as she wonders whether to make Palak Paneer or Matar Paneer?
She would have been pretty, maybe she was pretty. But the cold curve to her mouth , or was it the unblinking perplexity of her eyes. It negated the prettiness that the young taut skin stretched over her cheekbones must have otherwise promised.
Maybe she wasn't thinking of Paneer at all? Maybe she was contemplating between the red pills that were on the bathroom counter or the blue ones on the kitchen? Each promised wings, broken, bleeding and feathers mercilessly plucked; but wings nonetheless...
How would one know, a drop of sweat slowly rolls down her forehead, down the bridge of her nose and dangles precariously from the tip of her nose.
Maybe it would fall down.
One looks to the right.
A man, this time. Middle-Aged, spectacled, balding. Funny tufts of hair arranged randomly on his head. His beady black eyes skirted from one corner of it's drooping socket to another? What was it looking for? The Elusive "highway stripper".
The woman with fluffed and hennaed hair and glossy makeup covering the scars, a silk flower.
The kind you would put in the living room for decoration. Pretty, ornate, purple petals with rings of fading yellow in the middle. Made to look like the real thing, but a replica nonetheless.
That's what she is a silk flower.
Fake, barely human. Forcibly made to look pretty and demure, forced to please.
Does it matter to the man with the beady eyes though, will he wonder if the silk flower ever wanted to tear itself apart. Silk Flowers can't feel, they can't bleed.
Inanimate. The same sweat induced by the Delhi heat and the unlikely allies of a faulty AC will soon afflict this man.
I look straight now, the light has turned green. Another ten meters to scurry, a few minutes closer to the destination.
I turn the AC up a notch.

(Reference to Highway Stripper, a poem by A.K. Ramanujan)

Last Kiss, Pearl Jam. Is a cover?

Posted: May 5, 2007 by Hanedin in
5






I did not know this.

California Dreaming

Posted: May 4, 2007 by Hanedin in
0





Brilliant cover I tell you, brilliant.

Plus, new blog: Aeroplane Inc.

Posted: May 3, 2007 by Hanedin in
0

Charles Addams

Posted: May 2, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: ,

...




Hanedin:Swimming in a fish bowl

Posted: Apr 30, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
1

I wish I had a choice; there must be another way…

There isn’t, life is like the bits of shaving cream that’s still there after you are done, equal parts of white lather and tiny pieces of hair. It all gets flushed at the end.
What does it matter? Life? Live it or lump it.

Hanedin:While my guitar gently weeps

Posted: Apr 26, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs:

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps

- The Beatles

Hanedin: Decides to be nice.

Posted: Apr 25, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs:
1

Hey guys,
I got this scan of a hand out for UR Ananthamurthy...it's too big to mail to you guys hence I am going to post it here...anyhow...happy studying..and lets hope this paper ends well fast.

Take care and best of luck.


Hanedin: To the Lady In Black

Posted: Apr 22, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
2

New song posted above, I will follow you into the dark- Death Cab for Cutie.

An experiment in free association?

"Love of mine, someday you will die.
But I will be close behind.
I will follow you into the dark."
"The hint of a spark", a spark that you could catch and then keep safe in your pocket.
"Knuckles bruised."
Bruised, black and blue.
The pain, I can ignore. Will these love scars she asked?
How could I answer. Scars, I thought? Does it matter.
"Vacancy Signs."
The emptiness. The emptiness, cloaked viscous reds and blacks.
"Fear is the heart of love."
Fear, how? The same fear with it's unmistakable, ravenous stench.
The same fear that threatens to overcome you?
Overcome me?
"We will hold each other soon."
Sleep for now.
But what then?
We hold each other, clasped hands and matted eyelashes.
"I will follow you into the dark."
But what then?
Would it change anything,
the emptiness, the scars, the fear?
Would it?
Would anything change any of that.
Will you follow me into the dark?

Ramblings, as Hanedin puts it understanding "MORALITY"

Posted: Apr 19, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
11



My mom and grandmother are in the other room watching television. Other than the irritating and eternally disturbing sounds emitted by the weird K-serial that they are watching. I do not know get why they like it so much.

Well, actually I think I do..

The heroines in there serials are surprisingly (well maybe not that surprising) like the women that society would dish out as the ideal woman. Truthful, God-fearing, Liable to sudden spurts of "goddess-like" cranial abilities (liberally dressed with devotional music) that is more often than not succeded with a dash of her nauseatic pati-vrata-ness. Not to mention the evil witch like creauture who is diabolically attractive (the heroine is often plain, dark so on and so forth), supremely crafty and often undoubtedly arrogant.

Now the question arises why would anyone want to watch something that seems like a truck load of rotten balderdash. The answer is quite simple as it is intellectually numbing. Women who watch it like my mother and my grandmother are the ones who can identify with such a situation. But more shockingly they want to, and their imaginations allow them to do so.

According to my rather tattered Reading Gandhi (yes, valorizing that man is part of the DU curriculum) guide he is known to have said, "As nature has made men and women different...True, they are equals in life, but their functions differ. It is a woman's right to rule the home, man is the master outside it. Man is the earner, woman saves and spends. Woman looks after the feeding of the child..." It's this opinion that in embedded into our hegemonic conditioning of the mind that leads to the birth of such serials.

This valorization of the "INDIAN WOMAN" who cooks, cleans, fights domestic battles with caustic rage and is at the same time an inch above the unstoppable barrage of glycerin-induced tears that has appealed the most Indian minds. It's not very different from the parallel load of Balderdash that is trashed out onto through the likes of star world and zee cafe- why we have the eternally confusing Bold and the Beautiful (weren't you married to her and you? huh? What? Somebody switch it off) and of course it's mutated offspring, The OC, Fashion House..other names thankfully fail me. My point being that even though the K-serials belong to the same genre of trash as the above specimens they are different on one very important level.

The characteristic aegis of sellophanated morality.

I mean what's with that? Reminds me off that joke.

Dad, what is sex?
Son, in India we don't have sex, we have love
Really, but dad someone must be, look at the population?!?

If one can move away from the strangeness of my friends sense of humor one will notice the truth in this ironic reflection. I mean what is with this shroud of morality? Who cares if Shilpa Shetty kisses Richard Gere, it's not like you would not jump to the opportunity if it presents itself to you. What's with the banning of FTV? Whose morality is it tainting? What is with homosexuality being illegal? Are you really going to put Karan Johar in jail if he goes live and says 'I AM GAY' ?

Aargh, ramblings...I must stop..

Hanedin Likes: Trainspotting

Posted: Apr 17, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
1

Blah

Posted: Apr 11, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs:
2

"Gliddy glub gloopy
Nibby nabby noopy
La la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba
Nooby abba nabba
Le le lo lo
Tooby ooby walla
Nooby abba naba ....whats up"
-The Banshee

"Humpy pumpy poomp
Shnoopu bupu tublu
Harumph brumph boop
Boo baa boo
Tada lala la
Hoono lulu pu...smiles all around...poetic verse and all"
- The Hanedin

Hanedin:Bad Doggy, Cerebral Cupid, Evil Genius, I lie? Who Me?

Posted: Apr 9, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
5







No Comments. Shell Shocked.


Expected Randomness.

Posted: Apr 8, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
2


"Loneliness has followed me my whole life, everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There's no escape. I'm God's lonely man." Robert De Niro(Taxi Driver)

Hanedin Content: Hindustan Times Editorial By Thapar

Posted: by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
0

I don't normally wake up on sundays at 4AM, but I did. (Take into account that I had dozed off to sleep at around 6PM the last day, or night whichever.) But, no this is not about my zombie-like, odd sleeping habbits. It's about the glorious sunday vocation of atleast a few milliom people across the globe. Reading the sunday newspaper, I don't normally indulge myself in the hedonistic delight of such amiable activity for the simple reason that I think the indian media constitutes a bunch of hypocritical, uninformed bunch of morons. (Minus a few exceptions, most notably my dad. Sorry, Pa' but you know it is true). But for some obscure reason I did sit down to read the newspaper in between hurried snatches of Basheer.

As usual, the expected blasphemic excitement about the "arrival of papparazzi onto indian shores", the usual fussing over trivial matters..but the editorial, once I moved on from the rather strange but characterstic article by Sanghvi, I brushed onto a brilliant aricle by Karan Thapar. Well, maybe not so much an article as a subtle querry. And out of severe blog-addiction I really had to paste this here...

DONT YOU AGREE PERTIE"S RIGHT?- Karan Thapar

Are we hypocrites or ignoramuses?” Even for Pertie it was an odd way to start a conversation. He likes to shock but this was simply perplexing.
“What do you mean?” I asked. Although my tone may have betrayed my utter incredulity I hope my words sounded no more than curious.
“The Ministry of Information and Broadcasting has banned Fashion TV for showing semi-nude or skimpily-clad women sashaying on ramps. What did they expect them to wear? Overcoats and gum boots!”
“Why are you so het-up?” I tried to sound calming. “Surely you don’t watch the channel?”
“That’s not the point.” I could tell I had failed. Pertie was ready for a scrap. “Do you know the reason they’ve given? That it’s against good taste and decency! Tell me, what makes our dhoti-kurtawallahs believe they can identify taste and decency even if it slaps them in the face? For most of us they’re living proof of bad taste and indecent behaviour.”
“Come on Pertie!” It was my last attempt. “The point the Ministry is making is that in India we find it hard to accept such displays of female flesh. You know that’s true. So why are you quarrelling?”
“Because it’s not true, that’s why.” But this time Pertie spoke so softly, albeit confidently, I was silenced by his deliberate control. Clearly he knew what he was about to say and I didn’t dare stop him.
“Look at the temples of Khajuraho. Buy a copy of the Kamasutra and flick through its pages. Just go to the Delhi Museum and see our erotic miniatures. We’ve given the world some of its most graphic, its most striking, representations of the naked female form. Of sex. Of multiple intercourse. And you’re telling me that semi-nude and skimpily-clad women are offensive to Indian taste and decency?”
“That’s cold, inanimate art. Stone sculptures, oil paintings, pictures in a book. Not warm, living human beings.” I thought mine was a good riposte but Pertie clearly disagreed.
“There’s nothing cold and inanimate about Khajuraho or our miniatures,” he shot back. “But I’m making a wider point. Look at the sari and how it’s worn. No other dress so deliberately and so alluringly reveals the female midriff. In fact, it doesn’t cover the stomach at all.”
“What’s the point you’re making?” Actually I suspected I knew but I wanted to hear it from him.
“That the traditional Indian dress for women is designed to accentuate and focus attention on the female form. On the very centre of her body. On that part of it men dream about.” Pertie paused so I could absorb what he had said. “Are you telling me this is an accident? That it’s not part of our wider culture and our way of appreciating female beauty?”
Until then I had never seen the sari as Pertie had spoken of it. Now I couldn’t deny that what he said made sense. But I was flabbergasted that Pertie — Pertie of all people! — should have understood this. Of course, he still had more to say and was anxious to get on with it.
“Why do you believe everyone thinks the sari is so beautiful? Surely not just because of its colours or patterns? The answer is that it frames the female form to perfection. And why do you think foreigners look so awkward in one? Because they’re not used to the amount it reveals. The dress covers and hides. The sari is a window to what lies beneath.”
I can only say I was overwhelmed. I have seen the sari often but I have never seen beyond it. Pertie, to coin a phrase, had seen through it. In fact, it seemed as if he’d seen it not simply as it is but as it’s meant to be.
“But how does this make us hypocrites and ignoramuses?”
Pertie smiled. It was a slow deliberate stretching of the lips as he silently but proudly acknowledged his triumph and simultaneously signaled I was even dumber than he’d assumed.
“Look,” he said, “either the Ministry is denying the truth about India’s cultural fascination with the female form, in which case its hypocrisy, or it’s ignorant of it and that makes them ignoramuses. It’s really as simple as that.”
I was silent with admiration.
“I don’t care about all this tosh regarding democracy and freedom of expression. All governments censor. That India does too is no big deal. But to end up censoring your own values is bizarre! It’s madness.”

Hanedin: A dream deferred.

Posted: Apr 6, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: , ,
10


I really liked this poem....It's in our course, but oh! what a mindfuck...

Harlem - Langston Hughes


What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a rasin in the sun
Or fester like a sore
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-
Like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it sags
Like a heavy load
about to explode?

Sighs, nights, Hanedin sad now:Rambles

Posted: Apr 4, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs:
8




This is Vereschagin's painting Apotheosis of War (1871), it came to be admired as one of the earliest artistic expressions of pacifism.
Do any of us wonder why??

***

Listening to Gypsy Kings cover of Hotel California, maybe it's the song. Maybe it's something else I am really sad now. No, it's not your usual brand of self-pitied sorrow that stems from some random, unimportant event that you will forget about in a day, maybe a week or maybe even longer. No, I can't trace back this melancholy back to someone or something. It's just a general emotion that has pervaded into me. It's a mixture of everything maybe, the inevitability of my exams, doubt. I just read something in I's blog, maybe it's not meant to be read in such a manner but I somehow can't feeling the twang of it right into my core. It's this sweet smelling potion that we are concocting here, and we need to keep mixing nectar into it? Not because you want to, but because otherwise the potion spills. But what if, I decide to let the potion spill. Do something that I want. Place the I above the them. Maggie had partial duties, a duty to Philip and one to Lucy. She also had a duty to herself, didn't she?? What if??

Memory.


I miss her, I really do.
Last coherent conversation we had.

Hanedin: So you are leaving, eh?
R: Ya, I guess this is it then...
Hanedin: So, you got any piece of advice for me?
R: Just stay away from that girl man?! She is just wrong for you?
Hanedin: Haha, do not worry. Fuck I ain't getting back together with her.

I watched as she hugged him. Let us call him X for convenience sake. I watched as she hugged X and I hurriedly suppressed what could have been the surprising string of jealousy. No can't be I said to myself

(Er, I did go out with her, i.e. the girl I was told not to go out with, now I don't know whether I did the right thing or not.)
She left, now the obvious question arises...was I in love with this girl. Well, no not really. R however was the only person who understood me. Sigh, I was really attracted to her though, I always wanted to kiss her.
I had to meet her the last day, the day she left. I wish I didn't now
the inequality of needs. I needed her, she never did.
Somethings are just not meant to be.

PS: R ----> NOT RADZ!!!

Her Cozy Little Room

Posted: Apr 3, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
1


This is one of the most amazing works that I have found on the net over the years, it's called Her cozy little room. It's been made with a ball point pen, and was described by the artist as "a silly little doodle I made when I was bored". Sigh, if only I was ever that bored. Anyhow the artist in question be Blem. Do visit her site, she is quite amazing.

Pshew, Hanedin zzz.

Posted: Apr 2, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: , , , ,
1

Harumpf, sleep less night. And all groggy eyed. What with the university exams racing towards me, I decided to stay up and finish not only George Elliot's mill on the floss but also a couple of here-and-there-but-actually-nowhere-really stuff from Modern Indian Literature. After that I decided that I will watch 300, the copy of which I was downloading from Torrent.

Well things did not really turn out the way I did plan them to. It's 8:36 right now, it's bright, cheery and energetic morning...yech. All I want to do is sleep.

Due to a number of reasons such as it being a wonderful night (Van Morrison clouded my intellect, it's a marvellous night for a moondance), the excitement of finally watching 300, the insanely stupid but tragic life of Maggie Tuliver, late night shifa phone calls all did their bit in the achievment of the non-completion of my goals.

So, I decided to characterisitcally procastinate. However that is when I realized that the file I downloaded was in the form of a BIN/CUE file. Yes, long sigh. Which made me download 4 different forms of software, one daemon tool, one ISO cracker...I still haven't been able to watch it...

Maybe, I should study or something??!!?

Hanedin Blinks:Happy. Part One.

Posted: by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
1



(This be written by Aaki
Sigh, apparently it be for me.)

Walking through IIT with him (he of the bright eyes and eighteen years' worth of dreams), I traced my fingers along cold railings that worked upon my body like some ancient balm. It was a green campus yesterday, and flowers that seemed to be hurting from an excess of colour glowered at me from every direction that I cared to look in. There was anger in the air; the flowers seemed to diffuse it.

Culprits.

My self-confessed sibling had now taken his chappals off, and was balancing them quite expertly on his right hand as we ambled alongside each other. We looked around, looking for stray peacocks or such and such signs, barely discussing anything that I would regard as particular. But then, quite as swiftly as it had been broken, the camaraderie established itself again. We started speaking to each other again. My aching need to quell a self-induced loneliness began to talk in disjointed sentences, and he sought to contribute to the melancholy with his genius when it came to knowing all kinds of strange animals ever since he was a boy of four.

And then, maybe because he requested it, or maybe because we were running out of even-lined things to say, I twirled about in the sunlight, and began to sing--a song in a quivering voice that spoke of ill-practice and little range.

Desperado.

You sound like a jazz record come to life, you know, he said dreamily, and then he made me promise to sing for a movie that he knew he would make in the future. He sounded so sure that I wanted to believe him. One could always make a documentary of sorts, I suppose. But it would be somewhere along the time I know I would have lost my voice completely. Shoulders shrugged, but consent delivered, we walked on towards any road that could take us to a place where we would find our peace for today. I would not know why we supposed any road would do that, though. Maybe sunlight disillusions the easiest of pessimists into believing that all can be translated into a dream at the end. I cannot be sure about this too, you see. I had rather speak for myself, but I believe I would be more accurate if I were to furnish an account of the man who walked with me—he of the bare feet and an open mind. Yes, perhaps I can answer for him. Then I can perhaps escape the business of filling my own questionnaires, you know.

A peacock finally crossed us, its colors sitting sedate in the shadow of a bush, and it was a lovely three in the afternoon. Ruined professors sat along lawns, in pairs or crowds of three, and possibly talked of History. How are we ever to know? I would have liked to eavesdrop and know for sure, though. One likes to be sure of such things sometimes, you see, even when it does not warrant any particular reasoning, or does not seem to be worthy of consequence, to be sure. One just likes to know sometimes.

The peacock elegantly bowed to us and vanished behind the bush whose shadow had lent him an air of darker color than the bright blue he was generally supposed to be, and Barefoot pointed to me the bower where he had his first kiss--that tree near a hostel complex that had stood by and watched as he and his lover had felt their first intimacy come to life only about a few years ago. How many more first kisses had that tree seen, I thought to myself, as we moved apart from collected encased memories of at least a hundred couples. I put an estimate at hundred. I think its safer to spell it out as a roundabout of such, because then one can always fool oneself by forgetting the number of zeros that were attached to it earlier when confronted with the real figure, I think. One can always then quote the real figure and forget that the earlier estimate had been a zero less, or zero more. Or some such thing. It is easier on the nerves that way. At least for me. I shall only speak for myself as regards the way one ought to deal with estimates.

Hanedin Blinks:Happy. Part Two

Posted: by Hanedin in Blahs: ,
2

(This be written by Aaki
Sigh, apparently it be for me.)

Afternoon wore on, and I felt myself in a trance and gave myself up to imagination, though I had only sunshine to thank for the distraction, and we had just eaten Appams at a friend's home. Appams, according to me, are not romantic enough to induce a trance, I suppose. I hesitate. I had rather not say, actually.

All around us, Great Neem Trees were raining their leaves upon the ground springing metaphors in my mind. To me, they were leprechauns that liked to give out fake gold coins, if only for a laugh. There they shimmered, those leaves (those gold coins,) at a distance, as we made our way to an inviting hillock where noone would disturb us. I did not want any kind of intrusion into the happy occasion of me smoking my first ever cigarette.

Indulgence, I said, as we sat down, and he got up again. Dropping his bag and packet of cigarettes, he ran to fetch a box of matches from somewhere. We had forgotten the matches, you see.

The hillock housed an ancient tree, with the trunk of a Banyan, leaves that spoke of Kachnar and flowers that answered for Bougainvilleas. Two women sat at a distance near the foot of the hillock, probably speaking of a math problem that they had their heart stuck on, I would not know, really. I thought of dreaming about a black-and-white checked snake that might come my way. One has to content oneself with imagery when one is alone. But then suddenly all at once, one of the girls opened her hair. The shiny mass of it tumbled about the girl, and the other girl (her hair still neatly bound by hairpins I believe) rested her head on her shoulders, speaking of a bond that made me smile. One must invent stories when one waits for cigarettes. If crawling snakes fail, stories of two lovers ought to suffice.

I wrapped myself in a tight embrace along by myself, and waited for the man in the bright tee shirt and awkward jeans to come back to me. Suddenly, I loved the Sun as it sprinkled in through the magic tree. It was an image that I knew I would make a postcard of and mark to myself, that would be opened in about ten years from now and felt again, just as it was supposed to be. Probably just as how it was.

Hanedin Blinks:Happy. Part Three

Posted: by Hanedin in Blahs: , ,
0

(This be written by Aaki
Sigh, apparently it be for me.)


***
Do you know how gorgeous you look right now, he said, quite out of breath as he looked down at me.

He had come back.

I had watched him as he was coming back--running towards the hillock chasing an imaginary football, perhaps. Football and women were all that he would ever chase, my imaginary sibling does not believe in taking trouble otherwise. This is conjecture. Don't get me wrong—I usually leave character sketches by themselves. I would rather not judge, you see.

I watched him no more as he seated himself next to me, all ready to begin a lesson on cigarettes that I had never cared to know about. Menthol sugar was handed to me, and the elegance of what was about to begin sought to interest me enough to look at him, and then look beyond him to a particularly tall Neem tree—that leprechaun that was shimmering its golden wisdom all the while the matches were searched for, imaginary footballs were chased, stories were intertwined.

It lit, the strange boy handed the cigarette to me, adjusted my fingers to the way they ought to be, and I inhaled strange tastes and smells. I billowed smoke caring nothing for it, and I spoke as much. You don't look like a whore or a stupid inexperienced girl when you smoke, you know? He said that I smoked with the elegance of a woman. I think I believed for a minute, and then I reverted to concentrating on the smoke in my mouth, my insides churning with the strange taste of it, it making no music as it was supposed to. It should have, what did they show it in the movies for? The long cigarette wrapped around long fingers, the long fingers trapping the long cigarette, smoke lighting up the dark, creating the romance of a fog when there earlier had been none.


I gave up, cigarettes are wasted on me, I said, giving the rest of it to him. I cannot feel anything.

You do not feel anything because you do not want to feel anything anymore, he retorted mildly as he lay down on the grass, his bag his pillow, he stretched under the tree and felt the magic of the confusion that the tree was for himself.

Suddenly was I angry, suddenly I made a reference to some of the anger, and got up and signaled for him to come along. It was nothing, and it was everything. I think I feel too much. I do not quite believe anybody will agree, though.

Walk forgotten, I walked alone, my man following with the cigarette I had forsaken, apologizing for things that had never happened.

Later that night, he told me he loved me. I coiled myself around the cigarette that was still leftover in my bag, and smoked in the emptiness of my room. I wanted to feel something, feel anything.

But then, Cigarettes are quite useless for companions anyway.

Looking for a new template

Posted: by Hanedin in Blahs:
0

I be looking for a new template, I bumped into this brilliant template called London Calling on some site, sigh short term memory and all, however I did not like the pinkness present in it. As a result I have realized I will be designing my own template...

Anyhow till then, :D

Tool - Parabola

Posted: Apr 1, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: , ,
0

This video..see for yourself. A mindfuck and some visually inflicted, multiple orgasms!

Hanedin Heard: Flash Fiction Contest.

Posted: by Hanedin in Blahs: , ,
1

Toto Funds the Arts, Delhi Chapter, invites entries for its flash fiction contest.

The winner will get a cash prize of Rs. 3000 and two runners-up will be awarded Rs. 1000 each. A public event will be organized for the winners to read their stories along with an established author.

Submission Guidelines

  1. You cannot be older than 30 on June 1, 2007. Include a statement confirming your date of birth and that the story is original and unpublished.
  2. The contest is limited to young Indians residing in Delhi and NCR. No NRIs, please.
  3. Only one submission is allowed per person.
  4. The story cannot exceed 500 words.
  5. Entries can be either sent by e-mail to tfadelhi@gmail.com or by snail mail to:

    TFA Contest, D/377 2nd Floor, Defence Colony,

    New Delhi 110024.

  1. The deadline is 20 April 2007. Please mention your name and contact details separately, not on the entry itself.

Hanedin Liked:GIMPed

Posted: by Hanedin in Blahs: , , ,
0

GIMP: GNU Image Manipulation Program

I liked.
Er, I was told it's the free less complicated albeit less effective sibling of photoshop.
I still don't know what to say about that because I am quite a dork when it comes to photoshop, I like GIMP though...good fun.

Only defect I could think of was the tad complicated installation process (please note, here I am assuming that you are an absolute idiot), it requires the installation of GTK+ Runtime Environment before you can install the GIMP from the installer.

Sigh, fifteen minutes of boredom and I create a rather strange picture of Jimmy Page..good fun though.. :D

Eragon : Keep Holding On

Posted: Mar 29, 2007 by Hanedin in
0

The movie, is fucking brilliant! Releasing soon in India I believe? I need to watch it on the big screen. Er? I love Torrent!

I feel.

Posted: Mar 27, 2007 by Hanedin in
3






A pinball.
A shiny, white one.
A pinball that has lost all conceptions of space, time and life as it hurtled hurriedly from one corner of the table to another. From the moment he was launched into this table by the indulgent flick of someone's wrist to right now, he lost all semblance of control.

As he speeds from one beer-stained component of this table to another, scoring points for someone. Like a phantom trapped in someone else's mind.

He enter canals that stink with darkness. He exits them hurriedly, only to be welcomed by a series of glowing lights that stare at me silently. He is unceremoniously paddled upwards when he came too close to the edge by the same indulgent wrist that flicked him in there in the first place.

Who is he scoring these points for? A phantom, in maybe his own mind?

He wonders what's behind those flipper-flappers? Maybe another table, maybe a new beginning. Maybe a plastic circle, maybe a fullstop.

Untitled

Posted: Mar 25, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: , ,
3

No title.

No this is not going to be some blog entry with obscure texts that sound oh so cool in their mist of confusion. No this is dedicated to the action heroines, the lara crofts and the trinity's who are well so damned hot! I will try and categorize them strictly in order of my preference, and if you don't disagree with me or you think someone else should be there..you are more than welcome to tell. Also, an actress will not be repeated, Angelina Jolie for Tomb Raider and Angelina Jolie for Mr and Mrs Smith won't be there twice? You get.




And as to why I feel this need to categorize them, well coz I am human. And all humans suffer from this urge to categorize this random lil' world of ours...




So let's begin




10. Sandra Bullock - Miss Congeniality 2






9. Sharon Stone - The Quick and the Dead





8. Lucy Liu - Charlie's Angels





7. Uma Thurman - Kill Bill





6. Halle Berry - CatWoman





5. Milla Jovovich - Ultraviolet





4. Jennifer Garner - Elektra





3. Carie Ann Moss - The Matrix





2. Angelina Jolie - Mr. & Mrs. Smith





1. Kate Beckinsale - Underworld


Hanedin Watched: Pan's Labyrinth :)

Posted: Mar 22, 2007 by Hanedin in Blahs: , ,
4

Lying deathly pale in the shadow of a weeping moon. The girl, she bled as a smile appeared from somewhere beneath the fractured sobs...





It was probably the name and the length of the movie (just about two hours) that made me chose it as today's evening movie. I wasn't really expecting to be mindfucked considering that the same guy's made the highly strange Hellboy and the even stranger Blade Series. Don't get me wrong though, I loved Blade and Hellboy though a little excessively red was good fun. I just didn't expect a movie by Del Toro to rivet me and blow me apart systematically and alternatively.



What a movie though, it had everything in place, starting from the haunting melody in the beginning that slowly infused itself into the story to the amazing camera work as one scene merged into other. What I really liked however was the beautiful and flawless intermingling of the counter-realist and the Gothic with the stark and often violent reality of a brewing civil war. The movie is viewed through the point of view of a child which makes the over all viewing of the movie that much more mind-boggling.

Alongside an accurate and realistic depiction of the Spanish Civil War there is also the haunting fairy tale that serves as the backbone of this sublime movie. An opening prologue tells one of Princess Moanna, daughter to the king of the underworld. The princess became curious about the world above and fled to the surface, where the brightness of the sun blotted out her memories. Princess Moanna eventually became lost and died, causing turmoil in her kingdom. However, the king always believed that her spirit would one day return, even if reincarnated in the form of another.


Of course, the pleasure principal of Pan's Labyrinth is not different from it's predecessors...Magic. (Think: Lord of the Rings, Wizard of Oz, Prince of Baghdad, Conan the Barbarian, Lost Horizon) But it is the startling juxtaposition of the world of imagination with reality that makes this movie (for lack of better words) so fucking brilliant!


Stylistically perfect, the costumes and the make-up was brilliant. For once the "pale man" a monster who consumed human children while tempting them with a sumptuous feast seems, well a monster. Nothing excessive or digressive about him. Even the Faun(Who by the way is not the greek god Pan. Pan can't be pan without his flute now can he?)

A movie that explores a child's (Importantly, a girl child; Recalls: 'I was invisible to you because I am a woman') vehement desire to escape the cruel world, filled with violence and selfish interest that she barely understands.

We can all relate to this now can't we, at least I can. A door in the wall, traced with a blue, rubbed out piece of chalk, that would take me to the chamber of my dreams.

Facts and Figures

Directed by Guillermo del Toro
Produced by Alfonso Cuarón, Guillermo del Toro
Written by Guillermo del Toro
Starring Ivana Baquero, Doug Jones, Sergi López, Maribel Verdú
Music by Javier Navarrete
Cinematography Guillermo Navarro
Editing by Bernat Vilaplana

Awards

The National Society Film Critics for Best Picture
Academy Awards for Achievements in Cinematography, Makeup, and Art Direction
BAFTA awards for Best Foreign Language Film, Costume Design, and Makeup and Hair.
Goya Awards(the Spanish equivalent of the Academy Awards) the film won in many categories including Best Cinematography, Editing, Make Up & Hairstyles, New Actress for Ivana Baquero, Original Screenplay, Sound, and Special Effects.
At Mexico's Ariel Awards, "Labyrinth" won in 9 categories, including Best Movie and Best Director. The film was also nominated for a number of other awards such as Best Foreign Film at the Academy Awards and the Golden Globes.


http://www.panslabyrinth.com/
Oh, and thank you wikipedia

Hanedin Thinks: 4 1/2 Stars.