people versus people blog. ram's landing log

people versus people: April 2011

Queer things said straight

Saturday, April 30, 2011

ieri parca aveam buze cu gust de pic.
the eraser is the most important tool.
azi continuu sa fiu creep. "sometimes you remind me of a small animal"
'till the day I die \:D/

Thursday, April 28, 2011

the obsession of talking about obsessions

din seria de titluri care induc in eroare, va prezint postul: cum se transforma o zi ce parea a fi anosta in ceva genial.

visez la sacul de dormit si secretariat, la locul cela pur si departat, la luminile faine din orasul asta (nu-l vad mereu asa de gri) :)

PS si offtopic: maine de la 10 sesiune de autografe la manolescu-oral-part-II. sa ma duc cu istoria critica sau cu arca sa imi semneze cu 5-ul? :D
PPS: stupid smile. smiling stupidly. stupid smility. gorgeous similarity. "nighty night" :)

troubled people like troubled people

I feel...never mind. The point is that I feel. :)
Fix ya, break me, hold me, fix me. 3 me and one ya.


Tuesday, April 26, 2011


-written and read by Allen Ginsberg-

(part one...for the rest of them, youtube-it)

For Carl Solomon

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.


What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!


Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland

where you're madder than I am

I'm with you in Rockland

where you must feel strange

I'm with you in Rockland

where you imitate the shade of my mother

I'm with you in Rockland

where you've murdered your twelve secretaries

I'm with you in Rockland

where you laugh at this invisible humour

I'm with you in Rockland

where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I'm with you in Rockland

where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

I'm with you in Rockland

where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses

I'm with you in Rockland

where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica

I'm with you in Rockland

where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx

I'm with you in Rockland

where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of actual pingpong of the abyss

I'm with you in Rockland

where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse

I'm with you in Rockland

where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void

I'm with you in Rockland

where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha

I'm with you in Rockland

where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb

I'm with you in Rockland

where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale

I'm with you in Rockland

where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep

I'm with you in Rockland

where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free

I'm with you in Rockland

in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
the stupid things you do when you won't let go :)
the eagerness for novelty
the energy running through your limbs like you could use another body


Monday, April 25, 2011

Saturday, April 23, 2011


+ Asmodeus, my lord, You must be hungrrrrry! Slay the Whoooooore!!!
++ disputa cu automatul de nescafe. bagat 2 fise, primit o cafea. din ,,spirit civic" sunam la firma. din si mai mult spirit, ne intoarcem la vanzatorul nesimtit si cerem bonurile fiscale. am si dedicatie :P
+++ Google Translate is great
die Cow (la vache) translated: "English to Romanian translation: mor de vacă"
si cu virgula: die, cow: "English to Romanian translation: mor, vacă"

hai, invie odata si hai sa mergem sa ne culcam :)

Friday, April 22, 2011

Despre pro lex (dot ro)

Să mă ierte colegii de echipă dacă dă vreunul pe aici şi se simte aiurea că am scris despre asta, dar n-am de gând să mă abţin. :)
-unul din paradoxuri: cum să zici că regreţi dar să recunoşti ca nu vrei sa faci altfel? e clar. fie ştiu ca n-ar avea nimeni nimic de obiectat, eu de regretat şi aia e o formulă pusă ,,doar aşa" fie nu-mi pasă-

După câteva amânări de deadline-uri, am reuşit să începem să punem cap la cap părţile proiectului pe ONP (org nonprofit). Din suculenta listă ne-am ales Sindicatul Naţional al Poliţiştilor şi Vameşilor „Pro Lex”. Ceea ce urmează acum sunt pure observaţii care m-au râcâit, amuzat, indignat în ultimele zile.

1. La cât de proastă e imaginea Poliţiei române (cu care e confundat sindicatul şi e evident de ce), nu văd cum un sindicat ar putea să schimbe asta. Bun până aici. Problema e că nici măcar nu îşi propun asta. Detalii despre campaniile desfăşurate sunt inexistente, avem ceva aruncat despre victimele unor inundaţii. În rest, am putea trece la secţiuni precum ,,Investiţii Pro Lex" de unde observăm că

,,Sindicatul “Pro Lex” a dotat cu echipament performant echipele de fotbal ale membrilor. Pana in prezent au fost repartizate 53 seturi de echipament sportiv."

,,Liderii si membrii ProLex din cadrul Sectiei 25 Politie DGPMB au renovat toaletele Sectiei 25 Politie."

2. Victorioasă, am dat de pagina numită ,,Campanii". Am găsit doar una, însă stralucită:

,,PRO LEX a continuat campania de imbunatatire a conditiilor de munca ale membrilor de sindicat prin repartizarea a inca 25 de calculatoare si 20 imprimante.
Acestea au ajuns la Prahova, teleorman, Dambovita, Bucuresti, tulcea si Covasna."

3. Hai că dacă nema mişcări pentru imagine (aşa, de pragmatism), nema transparenţă, sponsori care n-apar şi ciudatul fond pe care îl au doar din cotizaţiile membrilor, măcar să fim sensibili şi drăguţi. Aşa că:
- facem imn (versuri ,,Pro-Lex, Pro-Lex, mândri să fim Pro-Lex, suntem puternici fiindcă ne-am unit, cu Pro Lex visele s-au împlinit")
- facem şi poezii (,,Realitate"- prin formă, se trădează a fi un crunt manifest împotriva postmodernităţii; ,,Ora de vârf" inspirată din tumultul observat din maşina de servicu)

...măi...dacă o ducem bine...ce mai contează?

mood 47.785

Rammstein - Mein Herz Brennt


Thursday, April 21, 2011

for me

the messiest period of my life
lack of concentration, grief, avalanche of feelings (all but one)

the pathetic thing is that when I saw this clip I started to think (once again) about that blurry concept called "God"...

PS: From Culinary Fictions: Food in South Asian Diasporic Culture:
"Along the way, Tilo meets and falls in love with a young Native
American named Raven
. It is this romance that ultimately tilts the novel
away from its critical freight, sacrificing a nuanced exploration of the
varied vagaries of immigrant life to produce a more palatable narrative
complete with narrative closure effected through the promise of romance
and heterosexual union.
In the novel, the lead-up to the eventual realization of heterosexual
is populated by a raw exposure of everyday immigrant life."

OK, I got it, you're having such a hard time when it comes to being tolerant all the way

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

...nop, I don't like their new sound :)

I'm looking for some old times
placebo - special k

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Romeo et Juliette - Vérone


Monday, April 18, 2011

starbucks şi cigarettes,
visăm la ceva în genul the devil wears prada... cate un pic din fashion shows, întâlniri literare, conferinţe de publicitate, disecţii publice de cadavre, campanii pentru LGBT ppl, chestii ,,mondene", lansări de tot felul, conferinţe de şi cu oameni brainy, concerte, CSR-uri, toate amestecate şi digerate de personajul care râvneşte

mâncăm sandviş pe wittgenstein
se termină facultatea şi noi tot ieşim la pescuit
sticle goale, poate s-or prinde şi unele pline...una ar fi suficientă

Saturday, April 16, 2011

A Temporary Matter (from Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter Of Maladies)

[my note: I like the copyright thingy]

"The notice informed them that it was a temporary matter: for five days their electricity
would be cut off for one hour, beginning at eight P.M. A line had gone down in the last
snowstorm, and the repairmen were going to take advantage of the milder evenings
to set it right. The work would affect only the houses on the quiet tree-lined street,
within walking distance of a row of brick-faced stores and a trolley stop, where Shoba
and Shukumar had lived for three years. "It's good of them to warn us," Shoba
conceded after reading the notice aloud, more for her own benefit than Shukumar's.
She let the strap of her leather satchel, plump with files, slip from her shoulders, and
left it in the hallway as she walked into the kitchen. She wore a navy blue poplin
raincoat over gray sweatpants and white sneakers, looking, at thirty-three, like the
type of woman she'd once claimed she would never resemble. She'd come from the
gym. Her cranberry lipstick was visible only on the outer reaches of her mouth, and her
eyeliner had left charcoal patches beneath her lower lashes. She used to look this
way sometimes, Shukumar thought, on mornings after a party or a night at a bar, when
she'd been too lazy to wash her face, too eager to collapse into his arms. She
dropped a sheaf of mail on the table without a glance.

Her eyes were still fixed on the
notice in her other hand. "But they should do this sort of thing during the day." "When
I'm here, you mean," Shukumar said. He put a glass lid on a pot of lamb, adjusting it
so only the slightest bit of steam could escape. Since January he'd been working at
home, trying to complete the final chapters of his dissertation on agrarian revolts in
India. "When do the repairs start?" "It says March nineteenth. Is today the nineteenth?"
Shoba walked over to the framed corkboard that hung on the wall by the fridge, bare
except for a calendar of William Morris wallpaper patterns. She looked at it as if for
the first time, studying the wallpaper pattern carefully on the top half before allowing
her eyes to fall to the numbered grid on the bottom. A friend had sent the calendar in
the mail as a Christmas gift, even though Shoba and Shukumar hadn't celebrated
Christmas that year. "Today then," Shoba announced. "You have a dentist
appointment next Friday, by the way." He ran his tongue over the tops of his teeth;
he'd forgotten to brush them that morning. It wasn't the first time. He hadn't left the
house at all that day, or the day before. The more Shoba stayed out, the more she
began putting in extra hours at work and taking on additional projects, the more he
wanted to stay in, not even leaving to get the mail, or to buy fruit or wine at the stores
by the trolley stop. Six months ago, in September, Shukumar was at an academic
conference in Baltimore when Shoba went into labor, three weeks before her due
date. He hadn't wanted to go to the conference, but she had insisted; it was important
to make contacts, and he would be entering the job market next year. She told him
that she had his number at the hotel, and a copy of his schedule and flight numbers,
and she had arranged with her friend Gillian for a ride to the hospital in the event of an
emergency. When the cab pulled away that morning for the airport, Shoba stood waving good-bye in her robe, with one arm resting on the mound of her belly as if it
were a perfectly natural part of her body. Each time he thought of that moment, the last
moment he saw Shoba pregnant, it was the cab he remembered most, a station
wagon, painted red with blue lettering. It was cavernous compared to their own car.

Although Shukumar was six feet tall, with hands too big ever to rest comfortably in the
pockets of his jeans, he felt dwarfed in the back seat. As the cab sped down Beacon
Street, he imagined a day when he and Shoba might need to buy a station wagon of
their own, to cart their children back and forth from music lessons and dentist
appointments. He imagined himself gripping the wheel, as Shoba turned around to
hand the children juice boxes. Once, these images of parenthood had troubled
Shukumar, adding to his anxiety that he was still a student at thirty-five. But that early
autumn morning, the trees still heavy with bronze leaves, he welcomed the image for
the first time. A member of the staff had found him somehow among the identical
convention rooms and handed him a stiff square of stationery. It was only a telephone
number, but Shukumar knew it was the hospital. When he returned to Boston it was
over. The baby had been born dead. Shoba was lying on a bed, asleep, in a private
room so small there was barely enough space to stand beside her, in a wing of the
hospital they hadn't been to on the tour for expectant parents. Her placenta had
weakened and she'd had a cesarean, though not quickly enough. The doctor
explained that these things happen. He smiled in the kindest way it was possible to
smile at people known only professionally. Shoba would be back on her feet in a few
weeks. There was nothing to indicate that she would not be able to have children in
the future. These days Shoba was always gone by the time Shukumar woke up. He
would open his eyes and see the long black hairs she shed on her pillow and think of
her, dressed, sipping her third cup of coffee already, in her office downtown, where
she searched for typographical errors in textbooks and marked them, in a code she
had once explained to him, with an assortment of colored pencils. She would do the
same for his dissertation, she promised, when it was ready. He envied her the
specificity of her task, so unlike the elusive nature of his. He was a mediocre student who had a facility for absorbing details without curiosity. Until September he had been diligent if not dedicated, summarizing chapters, outlining arguments on pads of yellow lined paper.

But now he would lie in their bed until he grew bored, gazing at his side of the closet which Shoba always left partly open, at the row of the tweed jackets and corduroy trousers he would not have to choose from to teach his classes that semester. After the baby died it was too late to withdraw from his teaching duties. But his adviser had arranged things so that he had the spring semester to himself. Shukumar was in his sixth year of graduate school. "That and the summer should give you a good push," his adviser had said. "You should be able to wrap things up by next
September." But nothing was pushing Shukumar. Instead he thought of how he and
Shoba had become experts at avoiding each other in their three-bedroom house,
spending as much time on separate floors as possible. He thought of how he no
longer looked forward to weekends, when she sat for hours on the sofa with her
colored pencils and her files, so that he feared that putting on a record in his own house might be rude. He thought of how long it had been since she looked into his
eyes and smiled, or whispered his name on those rare occasions they still reached
for each other's bodies before sleeping. In the beginning he had believed that it would
pass, that he and Shoba would get through it all somehow. She was only thirty-three.
She was strong, on her feet again. But it wasn't a consolation. It was often nearly
lunchtime when Shukumar would finally pull himself out of bed and head downstairs to
the coffeepot, pouring out the extra bit Shoba left for him, along with an empty mug, on
the countertop. Shukumar gathered onion skins in his hands and let them drop into the
garbage pail, on top of the ribbons of fat he'd trimmed from the lamb. He ran the water
in the sink, soaking the knife and the cutting board, and rubbed a lemon half along his
fingertips to get rid of the garlic smell, a trick he'd learned from Shoba. It was seventhirty.

Through the window he saw the sky, like soft black pitch. Uneven banks of snow
still lined the sidewalks, though it was warm enough for people to walk about without
hats or gloves. Nearly three feet had fallen in the last storm, so that for a week people
had to walk single file, in narrow trenches. For a week that was Shukumar's excuse for
not leaving the house. But now the trenches were widening, and water drained
steadily into grates in the pavement. "The lamb won't be done by eight," Shukumar
said. "We may have to eat in the dark." "We can light candles," Shoba suggested.
She unclipped her hair, coiled neatly at her nape during the days, and pried the
sneakers from her feet without untying them. "I'm going to shower before the lights
go," she said, heading for the staircase. "I'll be down." Shukumar moved her satchel
and her sneakers to the side of the fridge. She wasn't this way before. She used to
put her coat on a hanger, her sneakers in the closet, and she paid bills as soon as
they came. But now she treated the house as if it were a hotel. The fact that the yellow
chintz armchair in the living room clashed with the blue-and-maroon Turkish carpet no
longer bothered her. On the enclosed porch at the back of the house, a crisp white
bag still sat on the wicker chaise, filled with lace she had once planned to turn into
curtains. While Shoba showered, Shukumar went into the downstairs bathroom and
found a new toothbrush in its box beneath the sink. The cheap, stiff bristles hurt his
gums, and he spit some blood into the basin. The spare brush was one of many
stored in a metal basket. Shoba had bought them once when they were on sale, in the
event that a visitor decided, at the last minute, to spend the night. It was typical of her.
She was the type to prepare for surprises, good and bad. If she found a skirt or a
purse she liked she bought two. She kept the bonuses from her job in a separate
bank account in her name. It hadn't bothered him. His own mother had fallen to pieces
when his father died, abandoning the house he grew up in and moving back to
Calcutta, leaving Shukumar to settle it all. He liked that Shoba was different. It
astonished him, her capacity to think ahead. When she used to do the shopping, the
pantry was always stocked with extra bottles of olive and corn oil, depending on
whether they were cooking Italian or Indian. There were endless boxes of pasta in all
shapes and colors, zippered sacks of basmati rice, whole sides of lambs and goats
from the Muslim butchers at Haymarket, chopped up and frozen in endless plastic bags. Every other Saturday they wound through the maze of stalls Shukumar
eventually knew by heart. He watched in disbelief as she bought more food, trailing
behind her with canvas bags as she pushed through the crowd, arguing under the
morning sun with boys too young to shave but already missing teeth, who twisted up
brown paper bags of artichokes, plums, gingerroot, and yams, and dropped them on
their scales, and tossed them to Shoba one by one. She didn't mind being jostled,
even when she was pregnant. She was tall, and broad-shouldered, with hips that her
obstetrician assured her were made for childbearing. During the drive back home, as
the car curved along the Charles, they invariably marveled at how much food they'd
bought. It never went to waste. When friends dropped by, Shoba would throw together
meals that appeared to have taken half a day to prepare, from things she had frozen
and bottled, not cheap things in tins but peppers she had marinated herself with
rosemary, and chutneys that she cooked on Sundays, stirring boiling pots of tomatoes
and prunes.

Her labeled mason jars lined the shelves of the kitchen, in endless sealed
pyramids, enough, they'd agreed, to last for their grandchildren to taste. They'd eaten
it all by now. Shukumar had been going through their supplies steadily, preparing
meals for the two of them, measuring out cupfuls of rice, defrosting bags of meat day
after day. He combed through her cookbooks every afternoon, following her penciled
instructions to use two teaspoons of ground coriander seeds instead of one, or red
lentils instead of yellow. Each of the recipes was dated, telling the first time they had
eaten the dish together. April 2, cauliflower with fennel. January 14, chicken with
almonds and sultanas. He had no memory of eating those meals, and yet there they
were, recorded in her neat proofreader's hand. Shukumar enjoyed cooking now. It
was the one thing that made him feel productive. If it weren't for him, he knew, Shoba
would eat a bowl of cereal for her dinner. Tonight, with no lights, they would have to
eat together. For months now they'd served themselves from the stove, and he'd taken
his plate into his study, letting the meal grow cold on his desk before shoving it into his
mouth without pause, while Shoba took her plate to the living room and watched
game shows, or proofread files with her arsenal of colored pencils at hand. At some
point in the evening she visited him. When he heard her approach he would put away
his novel and begin typing sentences. She would rest her hands on his shoulders and
stare with him into the blue glow of the computer screen. "Don't work too hard," she
would say after a minute or two, and head off to bed. It was the one time in the day
she sought him out, and yet he'd come to dread it. He knew it was something she
forced herself to do. She would look around the walls of the room, which they had
decorated together last summer with a border of marching ducks and rabbits playing
trumpets and drums. By the end of August there was a cherry crib under the window, a
white changing table with mint green knobs, and a rocking chair with checkered
cushions. Shukumar had disassembled it all before bringing Shoba back from the
hospital, scraping off the rabbits and ducks with a spatula. For some reason the room
did not haunt him the way it haunted Shoba. In January, when he stopped working at
his carrel in the library, he set up his desk there deliberately, partly because the room
soothed him, and partly because it was a place Shoba avoided. Shukumar returned to the kitchen and began to open drawers. He tried to locate a candle among the
scissors, the eggbeaters and whisks, the mortar and pestle she'd bought in a bazaar
in Calcutta, and used to pound garlic cloves and cardamom pods, back when she
used to cook. He found a flashlight, but no batteries, and a half-empty box of birthday
candles. Shoba had thrown him a surprise birthday party last May. One hundred and
twenty people had crammed into the house-all the friends and the friends of friends
they now systematically avoided. Bottles of vinho verde had nested in a bed of ice in
the bathtub. Shoba was in her fifth month, drinking ginger ale from a martini glass.
She had made a vanilla cream cake with custard and spun sugar. All night she kept
Shukumar's long fingers linked with hers as they walked among the guests at the
party. Since September their only guest had been Shoba's mother. She came from
Arizona and stayed with them for two months after Shoba returned from the hospital.
She cooked dinner every night, drove herself to the supermarket, washed their
clothes, put them away. She was a religious woman. She set up a small shrine, a
framed picture of a lavender-faced goddess and a plate of marigold petals, on the
bedside table in the guest room, and prayed twice a day for healthy grandchildren in
the future. She was polite to Shukumar without being friendly. She folded his sweaters
with an expertise she had learned from her job in a department store. She replaced a
missing button on his winter coat and knit him a beige and brown scarf, presenting it
to him without the least bit of ceremony, as if he had only dropped it and hadn't
noticed. She never talked to him about Shoba; once, when he mentioned the baby's
death, she looked up from her knitting, and said, "But you weren't even there." It struck
him as odd that there were no real candles in the house. That Shoba hadn't prepared
for such an ordinary emergency.

He looked now for something to put the birthday
candles in and settled on the soil of a potted ivy that normally sat on the windowsill
over the sink. Even though the plant was inches from the tap, the soil was so dry that
he had to water it first before the candles would stand straight. He pushed aside the
things on the kitchen table, the piles of mail, the unread library books. He
remembered their first meals there, when they were so thrilled to be married, to be
living together in the same house at last, that they would just reach for each other
foolishly, more eager to make love than to eat. He put down two embroidered place
mats, a wedding gift from an uncle in Lucknow, and set out the plates and
wineglasses they usually saved for guests. He put the ivy in the middle, the whiteedged,
star-shaped leaves girded by ten little candles. He switched on the digital
clock radio and tuned it to a jazz station. "What's all this?" Shoba said when she
came downstairs. Her hair was wrapped in a thick white towel. She undid the towel
and draped it over a chair, allowing her hair, damp and dark, to fall across her back.
As she walked absently toward the stove she took out a few tangles with her fingers.
She wore a clean pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, an old flannel robe. Her stomach was
flat again, her waist narrow before the flare of her hips, the belt of the robe tied in a floppy knot. It was nearly eight. Shukumar put the rice on the table and the lentils from the night before into the microwave oven, punching the numbers on the timer. "You made Rogan josh," Shoba observed, looking through the glass lid at the bright paprika stew. Shukumar took out a piece of lamb, pinching it quickly between his
fingers so as not to scald himself. He prodded a larger piece with a serving spoon to
make sure the meat slipped easily from the bone. "It's ready," he announced. The
microwave had just beeped when the lights went out, and the music disappeared.
"Perfect timing," Shoba said. "All I could find were birthday candles." He lit up the ivy, keeping the rest of the candles and a book of matches by his plate. "It doesn't matter," she said, running a finger along the stem of her wineglass. "It looks lovely." In the
dimness, he knew how she sat, a bit forward in her chair, ankles crossed against the
lowest rung, left elbow on the table. During his search for the candles, Shukumar had
found a bottle of wine in a crate he had thought was empty. He clamped the bottle
between his knees while he turned in the corkscrew. He worried about spilling, and so
he picked up the glasses and held them close to his lap while he filled them. They
served themselves, stirring the rice with their forks, squinting as they extracted bay leaves and cloves from the stew. Every few minutes Shukumar lit a few more birthday candles and drove them into the soil of the pot. "It's like India," Shoba said, watching him tend his makeshift candelabra. "Sometimes the current disappears for hours at a stretch. I once had to attend an entire rice ceremony in the dark. The baby just cried and cried. It must have been so hot." Their baby had never cried, Shukumar considered. Their baby would never have a rice ceremony, even though Shoba had already made the guest list, and decided on which of her three brothers she was going to ask to feed the child its first taste of solid food, at six months if it was a boy, seven if it was a girl. "Are you hot?" he asked her. He pushed the blazing ivy pot to the other end of the table, closer to the piles of books and mail, making it even more difficult for them to see each other. He was suddenly irritated that he couldn't go upstairs and sit in front of the computer. "No. It's delicious," she said, tapping her plate with her fork. "It really is." He refilled the wine in her glass. She thanked him.

They weren't like this before. Now he had to struggle to say something that interested her, something that made her look up from her plate, or from her proofreading files.
Eventually he gave up trying to amuse her. He learned not to mind the silences. "I
remember during power failures at my grandmother's house, we all had to say
something," Shoba continued. He could barely see her face, but from her tone he
knew her eyes were narrowed, as if trying to focus on a distant object. It was a habit of
hers. "Like what?" "I don't know. A little poem. A joke. A fact about the world. For
some reason my relatives always wanted me to tell them the names of my friends in
America. I don't know why the information was so interesting to them. The last time I
saw my aunt she asked after four girls I went to elementary school with in Tucson. I
barely remember them now." Shukumar hadn't spent as much time in India as Shoba
had. His parents, who settled in New Hampshire, used to go back without him. The
first time he'd gone as an infant he'd nearly died of amoebic dysentery. His father, a
nervous type, was afraid to take him again, in case something were to happen, and
left him with his aunt and uncle in Concord. As a teenager he preferred sailing camp
or scooping ice cream during the summers to going to Calcutta. It wasn't until after his father died, in his last year of college, that the country began to interest him, and he
studied its history from course books as if it were any other subject. He wished now
that he had his own childhood story of India. "Let's do that," she said suddenly. "Do
what?" "Say something to each other in the dark." "Like what? I don't know any jokes."
"No, no jokes." She thought for a minute. "How about telling each other something
we've never told before." "I used to play this game in high school," Shukumar recalled.
"When I got drunk." "You're thinking of truth or dare. This is different. Okay, I'll start."
She took a sip of wine. "The first time I was alone in your apartment, I looked in your
address book to see if you'd written me in. I think we'd known each other two weeks."
"Where was I?" "You went to answer the telephone in the other room. It was your
mother, and I figured it would be a long call. I wanted to know if you'd promoted me
from the margins of your newspaper." "Had I?" "No. But I didn't give up on you. Now
it's your turn." He couldn't think of anything, but Shoba was waiting for him to speak.
She hadn't appeared so determined in months. What was there left to say to her? He
thought back to their first meeting, four years earlier at a lecture hall in Cambridge,
where a group of Bengali poets were giving a recital. They'd ended up side by side,
on folding wooden chairs. Shukumar was soon bored; he was unable to decipher the
literary diction, and couldn't join the rest of the audience as they sighed and nodded
solemnly after certain phrases. Peering at the newspaper folded in his lap, he studied
the temperatures of cities around the world. Ninety-one degrees in Singapore
yesterday, fifty-one in Stockholm. When he turned his head to the left, he saw a
woman next to him making a grocery list on the back of a folder, and was startled to
find that she was beautiful. "Okay" he said, remembering. "The first time we went out
to dinner, to the Portuguese place, I forgot to tip the waiter. I went back the next
morning, found out his name, left money with the manager." "You went all the way
back to Somerville just to tip a waiter?" "I took a cab." "Why did you forget to tip the
waiter?" The birthday candles had burned out, but he pictured her face clearly in the
dark, the wide tilting eyes, the full grape-toned lips, the fall at age two from her high
chair still visible as a comma on her chin. Each day, Shukumar noticed, her beauty,
which had once overwhelmed him, seemed to fade. The cosmetics that had seemed
superfluous were necessary now, not to improve her but to define her somehow. "By
the end of the meal I had a funny feeling that I might marry you," he said, admitting it to
himself as well as to her for the first time. "It must have distracted me." The next night

Shoba came home earlier than usual. There was lamb left over from the evening
before, and Shukumar heated it up so that they were able to eat by seven. He'd gone
out that day, through the melting snow, and bought a packet of taper candles from the
corner store, and batteries to fit the flashlight. He had the candles ready on the
countertop, standing in brass holders shaped like lotuses, but they ate under the glow
of the copper-shaded ceiling lamp that hung over the table. When they had finished
eating, Shukumar was surprised to see that Shoba was stacking her plate on top of
his, and then carrying them over to the sink. He had assumed she would retreat to the
living room, behind her barricade of files. "Don't worry about the dishes," he said, taking them from her hands. "It seems silly not to," she replied, pouring a drop of
detergent onto a sponge. "It's nearly eight o'clock." His heart quickened. All day
Shukumar had looked forward to the lights going out. He thought about what Shoba
had said the night before, about looking in his address book. It felt good to remember
her as she was then, how bold yet nervous she'd been when they first met, how

They stood side by side at the sink, their reflections fitting together in the
frame of the window. It made him shy, the way he felt the first time they stood together
in a mirror. He couldn't recall the last time they'd been photographed. They had
stopped attending parties, went nowhere together. The film in his camera still
contained pictures of Shoba, in the yard, when she was pregnant. After finishing the
dishes, they leaned against the counter, drying their hands on either end of a towel. At
eight o'clock the house went black. Shukumar lit the wicks of the candles, impressed
by their long, steady flames. "Let's sit outside," Shoba said. "I think it's warm still."

They each took a candle and sat down on the steps. It seemed strange to be sitting
outside with patches of snow still on the ground. But everyone was out of their houses
tonight, the air fresh enough to make people restless. Screen doors opened and
closed. A small parade of neighbors passed by with flashlights. "We're going to the
bookstore to browse," a silver haired man called out. He was walking with his wife, a
thin woman in a windbreaker, and holding a dog on a leash. They were the Brad
fords, and they had tucked a sympathy card into Shoba and Shukumar's mailbox back
in September. "I hear they've got their power." "They'd better," Shukumar said. "Or
you'll be browsing in the dark." The woman laughed, slipping her arm through the
crook of her husband's elbow. "Want to join us?" "No thanks," Shoba and Shukumar
called out together. It surprised Shukumar that his words matched hers. He wondered
what Shoba would tell him in the dark. The worst possibilities had already run through
his head. That she'd had an affair. That she didn't respect him for being thirty-five and
still a student. That she blamed him for being in Baltimore the way her mother did. But
he knew those things weren't true. She'd been faithful, as had he. She believed in him.
It was she who had insisted he go to Baltimore. What didn't they know about each
other? He knew she curled her fingers tightly when she slept, that her body twitched
during bad dreams. He knew it was honeydew she favored over cantaloupe. He knew
that when they returned from the hospital the first thing she did when she walked into
the house was pick out objects of theirs and toss them into a pile in the hallway: books
from the shelves, plants from the windowsills, paintings from walls, photos from tables,
pots and pans that hung from the hooks over the stove. Shukumar had stepped out of
her way, watching as she moved methodically from room to room. When she was
satisfied, she stood there staring at the pile she'd made, her lips drawn back in such
distaste that Shukumar had thought she would spit. Then she'd started to cry. He
began to feel cold as he sat there on the steps. He felt that he needed her to talk first,
in order to reciprocate. "That time when your mother came to visit us," she said finally.
"When I said one night that I had to stay late at work, I went out with Gillian and had a
martini." He looked at her profile, the slender nose, the slightly masculine set of her
jaw. He remembered that night well; eating with his mother, tired from teaching two classes back to back, wishing Shoba were there to say more of the right things
because he came up with only the wrong ones. It had been twelve years since his
father had died, and his mother had come to spend two weeks with him and Shoba,
so they could honor his father's memory together. Each night his mother cooked
something his father had liked, but she was too upset to eat the dishes herself, and
her eyes would well up as Shoba stroked her hand. "It's so touching," Shoba had said
to him at the time. Now he pictured Shoba with Gillian, in a bar with striped velvet
sofas, the one they used to go to after the movies, making sure she got her extra
olive, asking Gillian for a cigarette. He imagined her complaining, and Gillian
sympathizing about visits from in-laws. It was Gillian who had driven Shoba to the
hospital. "Your turn," she said, stopping his thoughts. At the end of their street
Shukumar heard sounds of a drill and the electricians shouting over it. He looked at
the darkened facades of the houses lining the street. Candles glowed in the windows
of one. In spite of the warmth, smoke rose from the chimney. "I cheated on my Oriental
Civilization exam in college," he said. "It was my last semester, my last set of exams.
My father had died a few months before. I could see the blue book of the guy next to
me. He was an American guy, a maniac. He knew Urdu and Sanskrit. I couldn't
remember if the verse we had to identify was an example of a ghazal or not. I looked
at his answer and copied it down." It had happened over fifteen years ago. He felt
relief now, having told her. She turned to him, looking not at his face, but at his shoes -
old moccasins he wore as if they were slippers, the leather at the back permanently
flattened. He wondered if it bothered her, what he'd said. She took his hand and
pressed it. "You didn't have to tell me why you did it," she said, moving closer to him.
They sat together until nine o'clock, when the lights came on. They heard some people
across the street clapping from their porch, and televisions being turned on. The Brad
fords walked back down the street, eating ice-cream cones and waving. Shoba and
Shukumar waved back. Then they stood up, his hand still in hers, and went inside.
Somehow, without saying anything, it had turned into this. Into an exchange of
confessions-the little ways they'd hurt or disappointed each other, and themselves.
The following day Shukumar thought for hours about what to say to her. He was torn
between admitting that he once ripped out a photo of a woman in one of the fashion
magazines she used to subscribe to and carried it in his books for a week, or saying
that he really hadn't lost the sweater-vest she bought him for their third wedding
anniversary but had exchanged it for cash at Filene's, and that he had gotten drunk
alone in the middle of the day at a hotel bar. For their first anniversary, Shoba had
cooked a ten-course dinner just for him. The vest depressed him. "My wife gave me a
sweater-vest for our anniversary," he complained to the bartender, his head heavy
with cognac. "What do you expect?" the bartender had replied. "You're married." As
for the picture of the woman, he didn't know why he'd ripped it out. She wasn't as
pretty as Shoba. She wore a white sequined dress, and had a sullen face and lean,
mannish legs. Her bare arms were raised, her fists around her head, as if she were
about to punch herself in the ears. It was an advertisement for stockings. Shoba had been pregnant at the time, her stomach suddenly immense, to the point where
Shukumar no longer wanted to touch her. The first time he saw the picture he was
lying in bed next to her, watching her as she read. When he noticed the magazine in
the recycling pile he found the woman and tore out the page as carefully as he could.
For about a week he allowed himself a glimpse each day. He felt an intense desire for
the woman, but it was a desire that turned to disgust after a minute or two. It was the
closest he'd come to infidelity. He told Shoba about the sweater on the third night, the
picture on the fourth. She said nothing as he spoke, expressed no protest or
reproach. She simply listened, and then she took his hand, pressing it as she had
before. On the third night, she told him that once after a lecture they'd attended, she let
him speak to the chairman of his department without telling him that he had a dab of
potatoe on his chin. She'd been irritated with him for some reason, and so she'd let him
go on and on, about securing his fellowship for the following semester, without putting
a finger to her own chin as a signal. The fourth night, she said that she never liked the
one poem he'd ever published in his life, in a literary magazine in Utah. He'd written
the poem after meeting Shoba. She added that she found the poem sentimental.
Something happened when the house was dark. They were able to talk to each other
again. The third night after supper they'd sat together on the sofa, and once it was
dark he began kissing her awkwardly on her forehead and her face, and though it was
dark he closed his eyes, and knew that she did, too. The fourth night they walked
carefully upstairs, to bed, feeling together for the final step with their feet before the
landing, and making love with a desperation they had forgotten. She wept without
sound, and whispered his name, and traced his eyebrows with her finger in the dark.

As he made love to her he wondered what he would say to her the next night, and
what she would say, the thought of it exciting him. "Hold me," he said, "hold me in your
arms," By the time the lights came back on downstairs, they'd fallen asleep. The
morning of the fifth night Shukumar found another notice from the electric company in
the mailbox. The line had been repaired ahead of schedule, it said. He was
disappointed. He had planned on making shrimp malai for Shoba, but when he
arrived at the store he didn't feel like cooking anymore. It wasn't the same, he thought,
knowing that the lights wouldn't go out. In the store the shrimp looked gray and thin.
The coconut milk tin was dusty and overpriced. Still, he bought them, along with a
beeswax candle and two bottles of wine. She came home at seven-thirty. "I suppose
this is the end of our game," he said when he saw her reading the notice. She looked
at him. "You can still light candles if you want." She hadn't been to the gym tonight.
She wore a suit beneath the raincoat. Her makeup had been retouched recently.

When she went upstairs to change, Shukumar poured himself some wine and put on a
record, a Thelonius Monk album he knew she liked. When she came downstairs they
ate together. She didn't thank him or compliment him. They simply ate in a darkened
room, in the glow of a beeswax candle. They had survived a difficult time. They
finished off the shrimp. They finished off the first bottle of wine and moved on to the
second. They sat together until the candle had nearly burned away. She shifted in her
chair, and Shukumar thought that she was about to say something. But instead she "Shouldn't we keep the lights off?" Shukumar asked. She set her plate aside and
clasped her hands on the table. "I want you to see my face when I tell you this," she
said gently. His heart began to pound. The day she told him she was pregnant, she
had used the very same words, saying them in the same gentle way, turning off the
basketball game he'd been watching on television. He hadn't been prepared then.
Now he was. Only he didn't want her to be pregnant again. He didn't want to have to
pretend to be happy. "I've been looking for an apartment and I've found one," she
said, narrowing her eyes on something, it seemed, behind his left shoulder. It was
nobody's fault, she continued. They'd been through enough. She needed some time
alone. She had money saved up for a security deposit. The apartment was on Beacon
Hill, so she could walk to work. She had signed the lease that night before coming
home. She wouldn't look at him, but he stared at her. It was obvious that she'd
rehearsed the lines. All this time she'd been looking for an apartment, testing the
water pressure, asking a Realtor if heat and hot water were included in the rent. It
sickened Shukumar, knowing that she had spent these past evenings preparing for a
life without him. He was relieved and yet he was sickened. This was what she'd been
trying to tell him for the past four evenings. This was the point of her game. Now it was
his turn to speak. There was something he'd sworn he would never tell her, and for six
months he had done his best to block it from his mind. Before the ultrasound she had
asked the doctor not to tell her the sex of their child, and Shukumar had agreed. She
had wanted it to be a surprise. Later, those few times they talked about what had
happened, she said at least they'd been spared that knowledge. In a way she almost
took pride in her decision, for it enabled her to seek refuge in a mystery. He knew that
she assumed it was a mystery for him, too. He'd arrived too late from Baltimore-when
it was all over and she was lying on the hospital bed. But he hadn't. He'd arrived early
enough to see their baby, and to hold him before they cremated him. At first he had
recoiled at the suggestion, but the doctor said holding the baby might help him with
the process of grieving. Shoba was asleep. The baby had been cleaned off, his
bulbous lids shut tight to the world. "Our baby was a boy," he said. "His skin was more
red than brown. He had black hair on his head. He weighed almost five pounds. His
fingers were curled shut, just like yours in the night." Shoba looked at him now, her
face contorted with sorrow. He had cheated on a college exam, ripped a picture of a
woman out of a magazine. He had returned a sweater and got drunk in the middle of
the day instead. These were the things he had told her. He had held his son, who had
known life only within her, against his chest in a darkened room in an unknown wing of
the hospital. He had held him until a nurse knocked and took him away, and he
promised himself that day that he would never tell Shoba, because he still loved her
then, and it was the one thing in her life that she had wanted to be a surprise.
Shukumar stood up and stacked his plate on top of hers. He carried the plates to the
sink, but instead of running the tap he looked out the window. Outside the evening
was still warm, and the Brad fords were walking arm in arm. As he watched the couple the room went dark, and he spun around. Shoba had turned the lights off. She
came back to the table and sat down, and after a moment Shukumar joined her. They
wept together, for the things they now knew."

dacă vezi un text cu multe paranteze () e-al meu
dacă dispar subit într-o zi, sunt în peştera licenţei

dacă ascult asta,
fac pauza din debitat:

Friday, April 15, 2011

marketing target -6 tech/net stuff I adore-

1. AMD

2. Opera and its Speed Dial


4. Avast Antivirus

5. VLC Player

6. Win 7

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

notă pe fugă

ştiu ce îmi trebuie pentru a scrie (fain) licenţa, proiectele, eseurile!
the feeling of rush. I can't make it without that. so...this is the plan for my first serious child: ultima zi de predare pe 6 iun, redactare începând cu 5. :))

Monday, April 11, 2011

Let's take a look at some LGBT-themed ads

Campagne prévention du VIH (INPES) de Mickouse

PS: ce alaturare: "If you're homosexual in a country like Afghanistan, Romania or Zimbabwe, this could save your life" [abt a closet]

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Cum lucrurile care se amestecă sunt uneori mai interesante decât...

Ideea e să scriu despre Macbeth de la TNB (cel puţin, măcar să încep aşa). Mi-am readus aminte de ce nu pomenesc despre spectacolele la care am norocul (a se găsi un termen mai potrivit) să pot merge. Nu neapărat pentru că mi s-ar părea proaste - unele sunt chiar mult mai puţin nereuşite decât marea parte. Poate pentru că mă simt violată (creier violat, hai). Sunt mai multe chestii pe care le consider viol:

- crizele făcute de dragul dramei (nu, uneori nu îi cred pe cei de pe scenă aşa cum nici ei nu ne cred pe noi, feţele obosite/atente/entuziasmate/concentrate/muribunde/indignate/inexpresive din sală)

- momentele de circ (şi cum circul nu ar trebui să fie teatru....)

- cred din ce în ce mai puternic că apropierea de public se rezumă prin: hai sa-ţi dăm cu apă pe cap, să-ţi aruncăm hârtii în braţe, să-ţi facem languros cu ochiul sau să-ţi trezim ,,interesul" făcând aluzii sau glume nevoalate despre ce ştim noi că te poate preocupa pe tine - ţara, neamul, băsescul etc. (a se vedea împletirea cu genul de revistă)

- şi cum încă încerc să îmi înfrânez pornirile de a mai folosi scurtături, uneori observ cum ,,treburile" cât de cât importante sunt servite în cea mai facilă manieră (poate că noi, maimuţele, putem înţelege nişte chestii fără gesturi largi şi sentinţe ce tin loc de reclame mari şi luminoase care fac pe oricine să găsească magazinul de pantofi din dugheana de mall)

- viziune nouă şi haine noi nu-s sinonime; ne postmodernizăm, fireşte, când călărim cu lance şi ochelari de soare pe nas, când proiectăm pe pânza din spatele scenei bătălii din jocuri PC, când purtăm ceasuri electronice şi tricouri pe sub redingote vechi; dar când tot ceea ce ,,aducem nou" nu sunt decât scenele de genul...şi recitam ca peruşii traduceri din shakespeare fără să ne fi gândit nici noi prea mult la ce mai înseamnă astăzi ceea ce zicem...nah, e ok că are şi rimă, ne mai urlăm un pic şi piesa-i gătată

- unii oameni se potrivesc cu alţii ca nuca-n perete

Da, încă mă emoţionează (cumva) sfârşitul. Când mă adun pentru aplauze îmi amintesc cum numai pentru asta aş fi vrut, mică fiind, să mă fac actriţă. Mă emoţionează, spuneam şi reiau, finalul în care ea (de data asta, Valeria Seciu) sau el aruncă o privire spre muritorul aici-punem-adjectiv.

Alte piese îmi par mai puţin forţate. Le găsesc ceva-ul chiar dacă mă simt violată pe alocuri. Prognoză meteo. Uneori firele pe care mă poartă în construcţiile mele mentale încâlcite şi deseori paranoice sunt suficiente încât să spun că mi-au plăcut.

Sunt într-un cerc în care chestiile se amestecă şi se strâng. Devin nesigură pe ce cred eu din unii oameni dar asta nu e încă suficient să mă determine a înceta cu lamentările. Îmi place să-mi lustruiesc demonii, să-i atârn firesc, uman, deasupra noastră şi să rămân cu ei goală, aşa cum nici măcar eu nu cred, în momente ca alea, că sunt.

piersic scrie un roman, manolescu se hotărăşte să moară pe lângă actorii fără soţ, toţi golanii cu plete tinere sunt filosofi pentru că ei (se) ştiu şi (se) vorbesc acolo, sufletele de calici încă vii mai caută moartea pe siret, lumea ca un paradox ca şi nouă ne place, prejudecată şi mărire, oameni plini şi goi în aceeaşi secundă


trei poze care-mi plac mult


Friday, April 8, 2011

let's play a little and go to sleep

instructiuni: apasa, apasaaaaaa! :P

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

How to Write the Great American Indian Novel

by Sherman Alexie

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man

then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white

that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps

at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.
Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.

Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.
Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives

of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love
Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust

at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.
White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.

Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man
unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.

There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.
Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.

Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian

then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry
an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed

and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.

If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside
a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman
can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,

everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.
There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.

For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender
not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.

In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

that's the spirit!! disertation haiku

James Kyung-Jin Lee

University of California, Irvine

Dissertation title: “Multicultural Dreams, Racial Awakenings: The Anxieties of Racial Realignment in American Literary Works of the 1980s.”

Black, Brown, Yellow, and White
Writers thought they were doing good.
Not so much.

from here via Mia Kalyiel

Monday, April 4, 2011

postare ,,în oglindă" :)

[şi o altă dedicaţie...yey :)]

Iulia Militaru - Marea pipeadă (fragmente)

[texte reproduse fără acordul autoarei. dacă se caută pe goagăl şi dă de pagina asta mă poate înjura pe mail să le şterg sau direct la seminar ;) ]

Ziua a patra

Noaptea s-a dus. O altă dimineaţă.
Claudia se află într-o promenadă prin parcul din faţa blocului.
Acolo e altceva!
Pomi, verdeaţă, flori, păsări...
Dar Claudia însăşi se află într-o promenadă.

Ador plimbările, îmi plac florile şi fluturii, jocul distins al luminii pe frunzele umezite. Şoapte albastre se aud... murmur fantomatic al dimineţii de primăvară cu acordurile galbene ale soarelui ce luminează tufişurile în spatele cărora se ascund uneori, pentru a-şi crea plăceri în linişte, privind la fetiţele dolofane, muncitorii de la combinatul din apropiere
Claudia îşi adoră plimbările. Şi Ea o vede, o priveşte din spatele geamului său. S-a mai împlinit puţin...

În părul Claudiei se vor ivi mâinile sale albe. Mâinile acelea mă pot dezmierda cum n-au făcut-o niciodată în copilărie. Pe când voi mă sfâşiaţi ele îşi vedeau tăcute de suferinţa lor.

Mama nu mi-a sărutat niciodată sânii,
Mama nu mi-a muşcat niciodată sfârcurile,
Mama nu a făcut niciodată dragoste cu mine.

Claudia se află într-o promenadă prin parcul din faţa blocului.

Claudia sărută prelungirile fluide ale azurului.
Claudia muşcă din fructele coapte ale parcului.
Claudia face dragoste cu doamna în alb.

Acolo e altceva!

Ziua a cincea

Am terminat de învăţat rugăciunea, iar bunică-mea este fericită. Nici nu-şi închipuie că eu ştiu mai multe. De asta le şoptesc în gând, ca să nu mă audă.

Cel de-al treilea poem dezgropat:

Te caut Doamnă în noroi şi-n rele
Feminitatea aprig mi-o doresc,
E cel mai rodnic simţământ firesc
A crede-n frumuseţi ascunse-n lume.

Dar n-am găsit nimic până acum...
Şi te iubesc c-o ură de zurliu
Slăvite Doamne, alb şi fumuriu!
Spre Tine din plăcere îmi fac drum.

Nu voi lăsa păcatele pe urme
Să moară-n timp ce caut vechiul monstru
Şi-n plin desfăt o să mă-nalţ din urbe
La sâni-mi goi să bei din vinul nostru.

E calea mântuirii sodomia
Când trupul se-mpreună cu Sofia.

Aş vrea să mă fac mare, pentru că omul mare deţine avantaje nelimitate. Aşa cred. Poftim, acum ziua s-a dus, iar ei mă trimit din nou la culcare. Ştiţi ce zic eu? Că omul mare nu doarme niciodată, că numai noi suntem obligaţi să o facem, ca să nu-l vedem pe Doamne-Doamne, care umblă peste tot, de cum se înserează. Mi-a spus mie o bătrână de la biserică.

Mama o să mă închidă mereu în somn.
Mama o să-mi apară în vis cum apare Doamne-Doamne în lume
Pe înserat.
Mama ştie asta şi nu se supără. Mă trimite la culcare mai repede.

Spre seară, am găsit-o pe Claudia în mijlocul unor flori albe de crin. Mi-am dat seama că se împlinise şi mai mult, din ce în ce mai mult...

who's lady gaga?

lucrurile se schimbă (nu repede, nu încet) dar când mă trezesc din anestezie le simt mai aproape, ma sperie mai tare. de data asta nici n-aş mai apuca să caut alte anestezice. e frica aia paralizantă, golul pe care îl simt când mă trezesc şi care durează până reuşesc să adorm. ştiu ce va urma, nu ştiu cum va fi dar nici la scenarii nu mă pot gândi prea mult pentru că greaţa e prea puternică. rămâne singura soluţie care a părut că dă roade: mersul pe jos printre maşini, dărâmături, câini, cuţitari, morminte, oameni grăbiţi şamd.

it is almost over and now I'm having second thoughts.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

chalk drawings and perspective

Bonus: no chalk this time


Saturday, April 2, 2011

there's nothing

you can see


Friday, April 1, 2011

Drum bun, impertinent---o!

Ieri am râs. M-a scormonit ceva deep down si apoi iar am râs. Am încercat să adorm, am mai râs o vreme, m-am mai gândit. Irelevant.

Mi-am amintit de ce am râs prima dată. De o magistra-scriitoare care îşi confundă (între ele) studentele arogante, cu goluri de lectură şi poetese at the same time, reeditând episoade penibile (mai ales pentru ea, aş zice) în faţa unor oameni care poate nu ţineau morţiş să fie introduşi pe coridorul întunecat al frustrărilor ei.

De la Aida Hancer, cu drag:

Malpraxis la cina de taină

ca să fii sfânt mănânci zilnic pâine cu var

zilnic pereții casei te absorb

ca pe un aer închis

pentru ca gura să nu-ți bată câmpii

îi pui un zeu

ca pe o cârpă boțită

din care să muști la durere

să nu-ți înghiți limba

singura haină cu adevărat transparentă

singura pătură care nu te apără

de frig și de moarte

ca să nu se împrăștie sângele tău

îl strecori prin pâine

îl așezi la masă cu tine

îi vorbești de la egal la egal ca dali

eu îți vorbesc de jos

aici purtăm ca pe niște chivote

capetele pictorilor nebuni

aici se poartă la gât

ochii lor ficși

și toate bijuteriile mele sar în degete

când aud poezii

și toți zeii se spânzură morți de poftă

după vinul de la masa poeților

și totuși ei beau la masa de operație

ei mestecă zațul cu bisturiul

scot în cele din urmă inima

unul se împiedică plângând în perfuzii

apoi se urcă în carul mare mahmuri

și-o duc de la tine

[PS: mincu. cenaclu. o babă. o parafrază: fetiţoooooo! tu ştii cine-i Dali? păi şi dacă da, de ce ai scris cu literă mică?

PPS: n-am fost ,,plătită" pentru reclamă dar s-ar putea să vreau... :P]


tu ut bu tub ub tb bt btu ubt utb b u t

I am not like that. pe principiul: "kill, chicken!": notice, sir! lalalalalllllllla.

pana atunci ii voi lasa biletul si trei degete (unul de la stanga si celelalte de la dreapta) legate cu sfoara de gard.

vor fi cele mai intinse cicatrici de pana acum, cele mai vizibile dar nu cele mai adanci si vechi.