No one tells stories, people always say. We watch the TV, we go the cinema, we scour the internet. One of the things we don't do is tell stories.
Let's look back on the works of the Brothers Grimm, the castles, the palaces, the peasants, nothing to do with people today. Wallowing in nostalgia, you could say, the nostalgia of a different age.
But if you look more closely at Grimm's Fairy Tales, you see there are connections with stories we do tell now. Take the Lying Tale, which is a short story made completely of outrageous lies such as "I saw a roast hen flying". The Fisherman and his wife resembles the Four Yorkshire man sketch done by Monty Python in the fact that the wife just wants more and more. Everything she is given she rebuffs it and wants something grander.
There are puzzles here too-a girl is transformed into a flower but can spend one night with her boyfriend. The next day comes and she returns to being a flower. The boy is told that they will be reunited if he locates which flower she has become. He is shown three flowers. He chooses the right one. Why?
Answer: Because she has been with the boyfriend all night, she as a flower is not have the morning dew.
There is also slapstick violence- someone gets killed by a large stone and the teller comments "He must have been a bad man, then," and people's heads fall off with reason. Rather at odds with the pleasant nonentity Snow White.
But now the brothers are stuck in a world with Princesses and Fairy Godmothers (actually their version of Cinderella left this part out) where people can sleep for a hundred years and dwarfs are real. Walt Disney could be partly to blame on this shift in meaning, although there are some dark parts in his fairy tale films. Note that his Sleeping Beauty contains a dragon, which though we nowadays don't connect with fairy tales, appear many times in their stories.
Maybe the problem with Grimm is we associate it too much for childhood, this 'Once Upon A Time' idea when all the Grimm brothers were doing were trying to put together an archive, the nearest thing they could get to a spoken archive in a time before recording equipment, of tales people told. If they were doing it now, they would look at sayings, rhymes, jokes and maybe half remembered references. Stories might have evolved to films and tv programmes, but the tellers live on.
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Tuesday, 23 October 2012
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
Bridge of Love
Perhaps I should have been more interested in the pending Geography lesson, but the kid who slipped into the seat next to mine tugged at my curiosity more than the teacher could.
Opening my notebook to a blank page-and on the third day of school, I did not have to dig very far to find it-I instinctively retrieved a pencil from desk as the freckled, curly-haired boy next to me did the same.
"I didn't see you the first two days," I said, laying the first girder of the invisible bridge that began to arch from my desk to his.
Shaking his head, he laid the second with his own words. "No," he said, as he sharpened his pencil, "we just moved here last night, so I had to miss 'em."
Watching him write his name on his notebook, I attempted to silently form the words with my lips, but the sounds somehow escaped through them.
"Jason Crough," I said. "Rhymes with 'cough.' I had one of those at the end of the summer."
"No," he corrected. "It's a little weird. Everyone thinks it sounds like 'cough,' but it's really pronounced 'crow,' like 'go.'"
Raising my eyebrows at the oddity, I tried to ask him where he had previously attended school, but was flooded by an audible "Shhh" from the teacher.
"All right, class," she pronounced, as she began her sermon, "we should all be on page six of our Geography books."
Drowned by the running water as I sat at the kitchen table in my friend's house that evening, I once again said, "We only did part of this geography chapter today."
Yet the release of his staccato cough forced me to repeat it.
"Are you sure you're all right?" I asked him at length.
"Yes," answered his mother, as she massaged a still-wet dish, tuning into the conversation as if she received it on some wavelength I had not been aware of. "He's getting better, and I appreciate you're helping him with what he missed today."
Nodding, I scribbled the name of the new student on the paper. "This is what you missed," I said, after his mother had retreated to the sink.
Coughing yet again, he said, "Jason Crough. Who's this?"
"Just a new kid who just moved here and just started school today," I answered. "But it's not pronounced 'Crough,' like 'off.' It's pronounced 'crow,' like 'so.'"
Disagreeing, he spat, "No, it isn't! It's 'Crough,' like 'cough.'" Looking toward the sink, he yelled, "Mama, look at this name," and then lifted the paper as she approached him, forging that invisible, yet almost euphoric link with her.
"How do you pronounce this?" he asked.
Contemplating it for a few seconds, she responded, "Why 'Crough,' like 'cough.'"
Craning his neck toward me and beaming triumphantly, he said, "You see!"
What I "saw" was that this was his mother-a person who had raised, nurtured, and loved him from inception and whom he therefore viewed as someone equal to God Himself-and that that was far stronger and more important than the pronunciation of any name.
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Opening my notebook to a blank page-and on the third day of school, I did not have to dig very far to find it-I instinctively retrieved a pencil from desk as the freckled, curly-haired boy next to me did the same.
"I didn't see you the first two days," I said, laying the first girder of the invisible bridge that began to arch from my desk to his.
Shaking his head, he laid the second with his own words. "No," he said, as he sharpened his pencil, "we just moved here last night, so I had to miss 'em."
Watching him write his name on his notebook, I attempted to silently form the words with my lips, but the sounds somehow escaped through them.
"Jason Crough," I said. "Rhymes with 'cough.' I had one of those at the end of the summer."
"No," he corrected. "It's a little weird. Everyone thinks it sounds like 'cough,' but it's really pronounced 'crow,' like 'go.'"
Raising my eyebrows at the oddity, I tried to ask him where he had previously attended school, but was flooded by an audible "Shhh" from the teacher.
"All right, class," she pronounced, as she began her sermon, "we should all be on page six of our Geography books."
Drowned by the running water as I sat at the kitchen table in my friend's house that evening, I once again said, "We only did part of this geography chapter today."
Yet the release of his staccato cough forced me to repeat it.
"Are you sure you're all right?" I asked him at length.
"Yes," answered his mother, as she massaged a still-wet dish, tuning into the conversation as if she received it on some wavelength I had not been aware of. "He's getting better, and I appreciate you're helping him with what he missed today."
Nodding, I scribbled the name of the new student on the paper. "This is what you missed," I said, after his mother had retreated to the sink.
Coughing yet again, he said, "Jason Crough. Who's this?"
"Just a new kid who just moved here and just started school today," I answered. "But it's not pronounced 'Crough,' like 'off.' It's pronounced 'crow,' like 'so.'"
Disagreeing, he spat, "No, it isn't! It's 'Crough,' like 'cough.'" Looking toward the sink, he yelled, "Mama, look at this name," and then lifted the paper as she approached him, forging that invisible, yet almost euphoric link with her.
"How do you pronounce this?" he asked.
Contemplating it for a few seconds, she responded, "Why 'Crough,' like 'cough.'"
Craning his neck toward me and beaming triumphantly, he said, "You see!"
What I "saw" was that this was his mother-a person who had raised, nurtured, and loved him from inception and whom he therefore viewed as someone equal to God Himself-and that that was far stronger and more important than the pronunciation of any name.
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Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down
It's a beautiful day to die. I look up at the azure sky to observe Old Earth's Sun gazing happily back at me. The Sun's feeling rather joyful today. Perhaps it's the promise of an entertaining day. I can feel the warm breeze toss my hair about playfully, and I enjoy the fleeting sensation that perhaps all will turn out all right. But the moment passes, and the cold truth weighs heavy on my heart. The faint strains of an eerie song reach my ears from a distant playground:
Ring around the Rosies,
Pocket Full of Posies,
Ashes, Ashes,
We all Fall Down!
Ironic. On today of all days. But they know not what they sing of. The origin of the song has been long forgotten. A tale of a terrible plague that killed almost half of Europe's population, and now it's a child's song. It's fitting that I should hear this song today. The children don't know what's coming. They don't know...
I stare at the beautiful sky and pray for a miracle. There is none forthcoming. I didn't really expect one anyway. Almost mockingly, the object of so much talk and speculation, fear and hatred comes into view. It too is beautiful. It is bright, reflecting the rays of sunlight, sparkling magnificently. I stare up at that which will kill me, that which will kill us all. I stare up at that which will consume the Earth completely. Ironic that the harbinger of death is so beautiful.
The meteor hurtles towards the Earth at 159,947 miles per hour. At least that's what the scientists said. But they're long gone, gone on one of the first ships to leave the planet. Bound for New Earth. Apparently it's the journey of a lifetime. I'm sure it is. But I'll never find out.
One hundred years ago, scientists discovered this meteor. After much study, they determined that it would collide with the Earth on November 5, 11239 C.E. It turns out they were right. Today is November 5. Any guesses on what year it is?
One would think that one hundred years would be sufficient time to evacuate every person on Earth. There was enough time. Someone actually calculated it. It would take approximately 52.53 years to evacuate Earth completely. There was more than enough time. Science had saved the day, and no one would die when the meteor finally crashed in a century's time.
But science is logical. Science is rational. People aren't. The need for worldwide evacuation created a new demand for spaceships and shuttles. Everything seemed to be doing well. The economy was booming. People were getting rich. But with the realization that everyone, every single person on the planet needed to leave, corporations realized that they could raise their prices indefinitely. There were no regulations on this new interplanetary transportation. If everyone needed to leave, then everyone would have to pay for a ticket to New Earth if they were to survive. Genius, really. A new marketing technique was devised. I call it the "Pay or Die" advertising.
"Buy your ticket now if you want to live! We're running out of seats on the U.S.S. Zephyr and you don't want to be left behind!" The message was always the same. Pay now for your right to live. Naturally, ticket sales went through the roof. Ticket booths were swarmed by the rich and the famous, the politicians and the businessmen. They were afraid, and rightfully so. After about twenty years of this, the Astronauts of Earth Supercorporation was running better business on New Earth than on Old Earth. The profits were even higher there, and the interplanetary travel was barely in the black anymore. The Board voted to minimize shuttles to and from Old Earth in order to free up shuttles for use on New Earth. This tripled their profits, and the CEO and shareholders sat fat and happy in their majestic mansions on the marvelously modern New Earth.
There were still eighty years left, and everyone believed that there was still ample time to evacuate the remaining population. But eighty years became seventy, and seventy became sixty, and still only three billion people had colonized New Earth. The stream of settlers had slowed to a mere trickle. By the time the New U.S. Congress decided to draft a bill to lower the prices for evacuation and force the A of E (Astronauts of Earth) to run more transports to and from Earth, there were only thirty-one years left before the End of the World. The New public applauded the bill for its humanitarian stance and hoped fervently for it to succeed. However, it was bogged down in the New Senate for two years, pending review by seven members who were rumored to be in the A of E's pocket. By this point, there were only twenty-nine years left. Time was running out.
The bill passed on July 4, 11210. Three days later, on July 7, Harold Don Lankard, a representative of the A of E, challenged the New Earth Relations Act. The lawsuit went all the way to the New Supreme Court. On the fateful day of November 5, 11210, the New Supreme Court ruled the New Earth Relations Act unconstitutional on the grounds that although New Congress could regulate interstate commerce, it could not regulate interplanetary commerce.
Years passed, and soon there was only one year left. The people of New Earth clamored for the evacuation of the rest of humanity still on Old Earth. By this time, five billion people were settled on New Earth. But there was nothing they could do. The uproar here on Old Earth was much greater. But there were no authorities left to hear us. We had no way to leave Old Earth. We had been abandoned to our fates. We have been abandoned to our deaths. I didn't have enough money to pay for passage to New Earth. None of us did.
Today is November 5, 11239 C.E. Today is the day I die. Today is the day we all die. Today, the Earth dies. I wonder how we'll be remembered on New Earth. Perhaps we'll be martyrs. Perhaps our deaths can help reform the governments of New Earth, weed out the corruption. Martyrs. All fifty-three billion of us. Martyrs.
I look up at the sky. My death is fast approaching. I am afraid. I don't want to die. But it's not my choice. It's never been my choice. I feel a tear drip off my cheek. I am powerless. Powerless to save myself. Powerless to save anyone. We cannot run and hide. The Earth dies today.
Amazingly, two children are still dancing around each other, oblivious to their fate. Though I have shut my eyes I can see their innocent faces laughing and smiling. Their voices echo chillingly in the silence before we die.
Ring around the Rosies,
Pocket Full of Posies,
Ashes, Ashes,
We all Fall...
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Ring around the Rosies,
Pocket Full of Posies,
Ashes, Ashes,
We all Fall Down!
Ironic. On today of all days. But they know not what they sing of. The origin of the song has been long forgotten. A tale of a terrible plague that killed almost half of Europe's population, and now it's a child's song. It's fitting that I should hear this song today. The children don't know what's coming. They don't know...
I stare at the beautiful sky and pray for a miracle. There is none forthcoming. I didn't really expect one anyway. Almost mockingly, the object of so much talk and speculation, fear and hatred comes into view. It too is beautiful. It is bright, reflecting the rays of sunlight, sparkling magnificently. I stare up at that which will kill me, that which will kill us all. I stare up at that which will consume the Earth completely. Ironic that the harbinger of death is so beautiful.
The meteor hurtles towards the Earth at 159,947 miles per hour. At least that's what the scientists said. But they're long gone, gone on one of the first ships to leave the planet. Bound for New Earth. Apparently it's the journey of a lifetime. I'm sure it is. But I'll never find out.
One hundred years ago, scientists discovered this meteor. After much study, they determined that it would collide with the Earth on November 5, 11239 C.E. It turns out they were right. Today is November 5. Any guesses on what year it is?
One would think that one hundred years would be sufficient time to evacuate every person on Earth. There was enough time. Someone actually calculated it. It would take approximately 52.53 years to evacuate Earth completely. There was more than enough time. Science had saved the day, and no one would die when the meteor finally crashed in a century's time.
But science is logical. Science is rational. People aren't. The need for worldwide evacuation created a new demand for spaceships and shuttles. Everything seemed to be doing well. The economy was booming. People were getting rich. But with the realization that everyone, every single person on the planet needed to leave, corporations realized that they could raise their prices indefinitely. There were no regulations on this new interplanetary transportation. If everyone needed to leave, then everyone would have to pay for a ticket to New Earth if they were to survive. Genius, really. A new marketing technique was devised. I call it the "Pay or Die" advertising.
"Buy your ticket now if you want to live! We're running out of seats on the U.S.S. Zephyr and you don't want to be left behind!" The message was always the same. Pay now for your right to live. Naturally, ticket sales went through the roof. Ticket booths were swarmed by the rich and the famous, the politicians and the businessmen. They were afraid, and rightfully so. After about twenty years of this, the Astronauts of Earth Supercorporation was running better business on New Earth than on Old Earth. The profits were even higher there, and the interplanetary travel was barely in the black anymore. The Board voted to minimize shuttles to and from Old Earth in order to free up shuttles for use on New Earth. This tripled their profits, and the CEO and shareholders sat fat and happy in their majestic mansions on the marvelously modern New Earth.
There were still eighty years left, and everyone believed that there was still ample time to evacuate the remaining population. But eighty years became seventy, and seventy became sixty, and still only three billion people had colonized New Earth. The stream of settlers had slowed to a mere trickle. By the time the New U.S. Congress decided to draft a bill to lower the prices for evacuation and force the A of E (Astronauts of Earth) to run more transports to and from Earth, there were only thirty-one years left before the End of the World. The New public applauded the bill for its humanitarian stance and hoped fervently for it to succeed. However, it was bogged down in the New Senate for two years, pending review by seven members who were rumored to be in the A of E's pocket. By this point, there were only twenty-nine years left. Time was running out.
The bill passed on July 4, 11210. Three days later, on July 7, Harold Don Lankard, a representative of the A of E, challenged the New Earth Relations Act. The lawsuit went all the way to the New Supreme Court. On the fateful day of November 5, 11210, the New Supreme Court ruled the New Earth Relations Act unconstitutional on the grounds that although New Congress could regulate interstate commerce, it could not regulate interplanetary commerce.
Years passed, and soon there was only one year left. The people of New Earth clamored for the evacuation of the rest of humanity still on Old Earth. By this time, five billion people were settled on New Earth. But there was nothing they could do. The uproar here on Old Earth was much greater. But there were no authorities left to hear us. We had no way to leave Old Earth. We had been abandoned to our fates. We have been abandoned to our deaths. I didn't have enough money to pay for passage to New Earth. None of us did.
Today is November 5, 11239 C.E. Today is the day I die. Today is the day we all die. Today, the Earth dies. I wonder how we'll be remembered on New Earth. Perhaps we'll be martyrs. Perhaps our deaths can help reform the governments of New Earth, weed out the corruption. Martyrs. All fifty-three billion of us. Martyrs.
I look up at the sky. My death is fast approaching. I am afraid. I don't want to die. But it's not my choice. It's never been my choice. I feel a tear drip off my cheek. I am powerless. Powerless to save myself. Powerless to save anyone. We cannot run and hide. The Earth dies today.
Amazingly, two children are still dancing around each other, oblivious to their fate. Though I have shut my eyes I can see their innocent faces laughing and smiling. Their voices echo chillingly in the silence before we die.
Ring around the Rosies,
Pocket Full of Posies,
Ashes, Ashes,
We all Fall...
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Fragmented Desires
((Babenhausen Caserne, 1977) (Part two of three to; "Nightmare in Erie"))
He cared for her-for her best self that is: love, well, perhaps it was damp love, not the kind that molds two into a marriage, or ever creates a bond between one and the other, not a real romance, it never had time to develop, it was damp before they met, and when they met, they both were in need of a lifeboat, if not a life preserver.
He learned her way as if she was a book though, opened at a certain page, one read and reread. And knew somewhere inside her there always would be that other person she was-that person that steps away from the soul for the soul's sake. And that is what he was thinking about this morning walking to the woods...
in essence, it was not a healthy marriage, from the start, and to be frank he never felt so unsure of himself as now.
-And it's not over yet, he told himself, time and again.
He loitered about among the indistinguishable foliage: it was summer, 1977. He lived outside the world of desires and their fulfillments. That is to say, inept and uncertain.
He turned away-they were in the woods, behind the Babenhausen, Military Housing Compound, also referred to as Caserne. He was with his wife and twin boys, now five years old, they were waiting for a ride on his shoulders and back, Cody was first, and he got on his hands and knees and moved about like a bear, as Shawn tried to pull him off. Then Shawn got his turn, mostly on his shoulders, as Cody tried to jump up at Shawn's feet and pull him off his father, whom was bent slightly.
It was a fine feeling playing with the boys, he had told them, also telling them that there were wild boars in the woods, thus, they looked here and there every time they heard a noise, and to be honest, it was a true statement.
Chick Evens longed for such weekends, playing with the boys, flying their kites, and so on, but the Army was demanding, and therefore, such occasions were far and in-between. But he enjoyed the moment, even his own fatigue, feeling the delight of the boys.
Regretfully that morning would soon come to an end; it turned windy, and then came forenoon thunder.
As he walked back to his apartment, knowing good and well the marriage was not going to last, that he could have had a good share of the pretty women of his time, just for the asking, but he also felt, why start now, especially with frustration and fragmented desires.
#934 (6-23-2012)
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He cared for her-for her best self that is: love, well, perhaps it was damp love, not the kind that molds two into a marriage, or ever creates a bond between one and the other, not a real romance, it never had time to develop, it was damp before they met, and when they met, they both were in need of a lifeboat, if not a life preserver.
He learned her way as if she was a book though, opened at a certain page, one read and reread. And knew somewhere inside her there always would be that other person she was-that person that steps away from the soul for the soul's sake. And that is what he was thinking about this morning walking to the woods...
in essence, it was not a healthy marriage, from the start, and to be frank he never felt so unsure of himself as now.
-And it's not over yet, he told himself, time and again.
He loitered about among the indistinguishable foliage: it was summer, 1977. He lived outside the world of desires and their fulfillments. That is to say, inept and uncertain.
He turned away-they were in the woods, behind the Babenhausen, Military Housing Compound, also referred to as Caserne. He was with his wife and twin boys, now five years old, they were waiting for a ride on his shoulders and back, Cody was first, and he got on his hands and knees and moved about like a bear, as Shawn tried to pull him off. Then Shawn got his turn, mostly on his shoulders, as Cody tried to jump up at Shawn's feet and pull him off his father, whom was bent slightly.
It was a fine feeling playing with the boys, he had told them, also telling them that there were wild boars in the woods, thus, they looked here and there every time they heard a noise, and to be honest, it was a true statement.
Chick Evens longed for such weekends, playing with the boys, flying their kites, and so on, but the Army was demanding, and therefore, such occasions were far and in-between. But he enjoyed the moment, even his own fatigue, feeling the delight of the boys.
Regretfully that morning would soon come to an end; it turned windy, and then came forenoon thunder.
As he walked back to his apartment, knowing good and well the marriage was not going to last, that he could have had a good share of the pretty women of his time, just for the asking, but he also felt, why start now, especially with frustration and fragmented desires.
#934 (6-23-2012)
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Monday, 15 October 2012
My Torrid Affair With Irene
In this instant, exaggerating world we live in, everything is magnified and blown out of perspective.
Many airplane phobias grow out of the media's spectacular coverage of an airline crash with pictures and graphic descriptions of maimed bodies and terrible destruction.
Stories are repeated over and over to satisfy the hungry, peeping Tom public and fill the newspapers, TVs, computers and radio.
Eddie Murphy once mimicked the assassination attempt of Presidaent Reagan by doing a comic rendition of, "Buckweat has been shot!" He repeated it in various angles, slow motion and normal. It was hysterical burlesque in that it demonstrated the media's handling of current events.
Weather reporting becomes more than just a prediction of what may be. There are graphs and radar and beautiful models and handsome men reporting it. They have Geraldo Rivera standing in a hurricane, his hair blowing in the wind. Cars chasing tornadoes and volcano's and tsunamis and plain old thunder storms.
People rush to buy food and batteries and snow shovels. The mayors and governors use the emergencies to enhance their political presence.
And we all wait in anticipation of the titillating diversion from our daily routines.
The news and weather have become an entertaining medium and an opportunity to advertise products. It is also an opportunity for the various experts to show how erudite they are. I have always been fascinated by the expression, "There will be a thirty five per cent chance of rain" What does that mean? Does it mean there will be a sixty five percent chance it will not rain? That's like saying it will be a nice day if it does not rain.
I wrote the following as an observation of this phenomenon and its impact on our modern day lives.
So here's my response. Hope you find it amusing.
My Torrid Affair With Irene
I can't say I was not warned... "Beware of this one! she is dangerous! She will blow into your life and leave you rung out and in the dark. But she will also bring you danger and exotic excitement."
"Baloney", I thought. She will be an exaggeration like the rest
So I waited with anticipation... nervously looking out the window awaiting her arrival.
Wow! She poured out her heart and her soul and sang with the wind. And indeed I was apprehensive as the darkness enfolded me. The TV was no longer pertinent nor was my trusty computer. Just Irene and me.. It was truly sensual and thrilling.
And then she was gone on her frivolous way. To D' electrify others. To tear into their lives and leave them as she left me..alone and battered...
"Good night Irene... Good night Irene... I'll see you in my dreams... ".
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Many airplane phobias grow out of the media's spectacular coverage of an airline crash with pictures and graphic descriptions of maimed bodies and terrible destruction.
Stories are repeated over and over to satisfy the hungry, peeping Tom public and fill the newspapers, TVs, computers and radio.
Eddie Murphy once mimicked the assassination attempt of Presidaent Reagan by doing a comic rendition of, "Buckweat has been shot!" He repeated it in various angles, slow motion and normal. It was hysterical burlesque in that it demonstrated the media's handling of current events.
Weather reporting becomes more than just a prediction of what may be. There are graphs and radar and beautiful models and handsome men reporting it. They have Geraldo Rivera standing in a hurricane, his hair blowing in the wind. Cars chasing tornadoes and volcano's and tsunamis and plain old thunder storms.
People rush to buy food and batteries and snow shovels. The mayors and governors use the emergencies to enhance their political presence.
And we all wait in anticipation of the titillating diversion from our daily routines.
The news and weather have become an entertaining medium and an opportunity to advertise products. It is also an opportunity for the various experts to show how erudite they are. I have always been fascinated by the expression, "There will be a thirty five per cent chance of rain" What does that mean? Does it mean there will be a sixty five percent chance it will not rain? That's like saying it will be a nice day if it does not rain.
I wrote the following as an observation of this phenomenon and its impact on our modern day lives.
So here's my response. Hope you find it amusing.
My Torrid Affair With Irene
I can't say I was not warned... "Beware of this one! she is dangerous! She will blow into your life and leave you rung out and in the dark. But she will also bring you danger and exotic excitement."
"Baloney", I thought. She will be an exaggeration like the rest
So I waited with anticipation... nervously looking out the window awaiting her arrival.
Wow! She poured out her heart and her soul and sang with the wind. And indeed I was apprehensive as the darkness enfolded me. The TV was no longer pertinent nor was my trusty computer. Just Irene and me.. It was truly sensual and thrilling.
And then she was gone on her frivolous way. To D' electrify others. To tear into their lives and leave them as she left me..alone and battered...
"Good night Irene... Good night Irene... I'll see you in my dreams... ".
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Sunday, 14 October 2012
Moonlit Night And Unforgettable Memories
The expansive water surface of the Arabian Sea, resembling like a sheet of glass, has its own beauty and charm. The awesome full moon's reflection in the calm sea was, indeed, most enchanting and romantic too. The passing steamers were occasionally disturbing the serenity in the environments. The screw was creating ripples and conveying many untold messages to the people in love. The black smoke from the funnel was making a serpent like a trail towards heavens. It is unequivocally establishing the eternity of unfathomable love between two unknown persons, who were sincerely involved with each other.
The dark cloud represents Sameer's sincerity of love and purity of thoughts. His feelings towards Diana still mesmerize many youngsters. His matchless love beautifully expressing his immortal feelings that can be best expressed in Mirza Ghalib's couplet from Urdu language poetry. (Mirza Ghalib was the most famous outstanding grand masters of Urdu poetry of yester years). It goes like this:
"When the candle is extinguished, then the black smoke rises from it,
The flame of love had wrapped up in the dark after my death."
Sameer has reasons to remember Diana at every moment beyond his life. She was the combination of beauty and the brain. Her moments and conduct can best be described as poetry in motion. She possessed a unique personality and down to earth simplicity of nature. She was kind hearted and sincere. Sameer's nostalgic feelings reverberating many memorable days they spend together. The unforgettable days, when they met for the first time, has a story of many innumerable passions. The silent words expressed through their eyes between them have narrated their stories of sincerity of passion and purity of affection.
Diana was very simple and elegant in spite of being rich and famous. The upscale society and aristocratic family background speak volumes of her dignity and sophistication. However, she possessed a heart which has preserved a picture of Sameer in her subconscious thoughts.
His humble background has out-smarted many rich and famous lads of wealthy and aristocratic society. He possessed a gift of gap and a perfect sense of humour. He was intelligent and knew the art of stealing the heart of many feminine genders. What was transpired and inspired between Sameer and Diana has its sanctity and purity of love?
It was September, and the birthday lad was on his own and lonely, strolling down in the park. The evening twilight was continually exploring his feelings and simplicity. It was making his personality most attractive and enchanting. He went inside the café and fetched a coffee and sat down in the cosy corner. He was totally engrossed in his thoughts, when a soft yet a melodious voice interrupted him. A charming young girl stood in front of him and politely asked his permission to share the same table. At that moment, Sameer has become dumb founded and speechless. He recovered quickly, and with a broader smile stood and bowed before her. It indicated his permission and magnitude of mannerism.
The moment appeared lasting and unending. The time encompassed the two strangers and their sincere love into its magnanimity. They looked deep into each other's eyes, and their passion of love transformed them into sublimity. They were totally unaware of their attraction and attachment to each other. They remained mute for reasonably longer time until the steward broke the silence and enquired into their requirements. Sameer asked her if she liked to share a cake. She nodded in affirmative, and the steward departed to fulfil the order.
Diana and Sameer exchanged their basic information and suddenly laughed in unison. Diana complemented without exaggeration about his dreamy and intoxicating eyes. It appeared to her that his eyes have read all about her personality. Sameer thanked and reciprocated her compliment in expressing her overall personality like Rebecca's statue.
The waiter placed their order on the table and wished him happy birthday. Diana felt a pleasant surprise and enquired; how did the steward know about it?
Sameer replied, "He always celebrates his birthday alone and in the same restaurant."
They shared the cake and after sometime they left the place and decided to walk down the carriageway towards the park.
Diana expressed her love and wanted to spend her holidays in Venice. She formally invited him to join her on her trip to Venice. She requested him to prepare to leave by the following weekend.
Sameer smiled and expressed his unfathomable love through his eyes, which has enveloped her in totality.
The seven days of the week were appeared, most memorable not only to Sameer and Diana but also to the entire neighbourhood. Everybody appreciated and admired the couple. They spend most of the time together exchanging their thoughts, feelings and subtle sense of humor. Diana informed him that she will be visiting her grandma along with her parents, and they will return in a few days. They departed to their respective homes and promise to meet on the eve of departure to Venice.
Sameer was off to the neighboring town to fulfil his unfinished task. He returned in a couple of days and settled down in his home. On the appointed day Sameer was proceeding towards Diana's residence and noticed something very unusual. Everybody was giving a strange look at him. It appeared that they wanted to tell something but refrained from doing so for some unknown reasons. Finally, he reached her home and noticed a tragic scene. The coffin was resting on the hearse and everybody, including Diana's family members were in black robes barring Diana. Her absence made him frightened and confused. He was in a dilemma, whether to enquire about Diana or wait and watch?
He remained silent for some time and decided to approach her parents. Her mother came running and hugged Sameer and broke down hysterical. Other family people took charge and tried to pacify her. Sameer was shivering with fear of an unknown danger. Diana's father took Sameer in the corner and informed him that Diana has died in her sleep. Her sudden demise has shocked everybody with same magnitude. Sameer broke down and could not control his tears. He touched the coffin and kissed.
After the funeral ceremony was over and everybody departed to their respective destination. Sameer walked down the path to the café in a melancholy state and sat in the corner. The waiter approached him and with all sympathy expressed his condolence and remembered the departed soul in very high steam. Sameer looked at him and expressed her absence by reciting an Urdu poetry couplet:
"The memories of the past are tormented oh! Lord,
Snatch my memories from me."
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The dark cloud represents Sameer's sincerity of love and purity of thoughts. His feelings towards Diana still mesmerize many youngsters. His matchless love beautifully expressing his immortal feelings that can be best expressed in Mirza Ghalib's couplet from Urdu language poetry. (Mirza Ghalib was the most famous outstanding grand masters of Urdu poetry of yester years). It goes like this:
"When the candle is extinguished, then the black smoke rises from it,
The flame of love had wrapped up in the dark after my death."
Sameer has reasons to remember Diana at every moment beyond his life. She was the combination of beauty and the brain. Her moments and conduct can best be described as poetry in motion. She possessed a unique personality and down to earth simplicity of nature. She was kind hearted and sincere. Sameer's nostalgic feelings reverberating many memorable days they spend together. The unforgettable days, when they met for the first time, has a story of many innumerable passions. The silent words expressed through their eyes between them have narrated their stories of sincerity of passion and purity of affection.
Diana was very simple and elegant in spite of being rich and famous. The upscale society and aristocratic family background speak volumes of her dignity and sophistication. However, she possessed a heart which has preserved a picture of Sameer in her subconscious thoughts.
His humble background has out-smarted many rich and famous lads of wealthy and aristocratic society. He possessed a gift of gap and a perfect sense of humour. He was intelligent and knew the art of stealing the heart of many feminine genders. What was transpired and inspired between Sameer and Diana has its sanctity and purity of love?
It was September, and the birthday lad was on his own and lonely, strolling down in the park. The evening twilight was continually exploring his feelings and simplicity. It was making his personality most attractive and enchanting. He went inside the café and fetched a coffee and sat down in the cosy corner. He was totally engrossed in his thoughts, when a soft yet a melodious voice interrupted him. A charming young girl stood in front of him and politely asked his permission to share the same table. At that moment, Sameer has become dumb founded and speechless. He recovered quickly, and with a broader smile stood and bowed before her. It indicated his permission and magnitude of mannerism.
The moment appeared lasting and unending. The time encompassed the two strangers and their sincere love into its magnanimity. They looked deep into each other's eyes, and their passion of love transformed them into sublimity. They were totally unaware of their attraction and attachment to each other. They remained mute for reasonably longer time until the steward broke the silence and enquired into their requirements. Sameer asked her if she liked to share a cake. She nodded in affirmative, and the steward departed to fulfil the order.
Diana and Sameer exchanged their basic information and suddenly laughed in unison. Diana complemented without exaggeration about his dreamy and intoxicating eyes. It appeared to her that his eyes have read all about her personality. Sameer thanked and reciprocated her compliment in expressing her overall personality like Rebecca's statue.
The waiter placed their order on the table and wished him happy birthday. Diana felt a pleasant surprise and enquired; how did the steward know about it?
Sameer replied, "He always celebrates his birthday alone and in the same restaurant."
They shared the cake and after sometime they left the place and decided to walk down the carriageway towards the park.
Diana expressed her love and wanted to spend her holidays in Venice. She formally invited him to join her on her trip to Venice. She requested him to prepare to leave by the following weekend.
Sameer smiled and expressed his unfathomable love through his eyes, which has enveloped her in totality.
The seven days of the week were appeared, most memorable not only to Sameer and Diana but also to the entire neighbourhood. Everybody appreciated and admired the couple. They spend most of the time together exchanging their thoughts, feelings and subtle sense of humor. Diana informed him that she will be visiting her grandma along with her parents, and they will return in a few days. They departed to their respective homes and promise to meet on the eve of departure to Venice.
Sameer was off to the neighboring town to fulfil his unfinished task. He returned in a couple of days and settled down in his home. On the appointed day Sameer was proceeding towards Diana's residence and noticed something very unusual. Everybody was giving a strange look at him. It appeared that they wanted to tell something but refrained from doing so for some unknown reasons. Finally, he reached her home and noticed a tragic scene. The coffin was resting on the hearse and everybody, including Diana's family members were in black robes barring Diana. Her absence made him frightened and confused. He was in a dilemma, whether to enquire about Diana or wait and watch?
He remained silent for some time and decided to approach her parents. Her mother came running and hugged Sameer and broke down hysterical. Other family people took charge and tried to pacify her. Sameer was shivering with fear of an unknown danger. Diana's father took Sameer in the corner and informed him that Diana has died in her sleep. Her sudden demise has shocked everybody with same magnitude. Sameer broke down and could not control his tears. He touched the coffin and kissed.
After the funeral ceremony was over and everybody departed to their respective destination. Sameer walked down the path to the café in a melancholy state and sat in the corner. The waiter approached him and with all sympathy expressed his condolence and remembered the departed soul in very high steam. Sameer looked at him and expressed her absence by reciting an Urdu poetry couplet:
"The memories of the past are tormented oh! Lord,
Snatch my memories from me."
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Left on the Ground
The time is nigh to reach for the sky
. The words rotate in my mind the way the minute hand unwinds on my clock. But still I dose... Oh, I hope my tie's on straight... You have it already... Yes, my degree... I'm sure I can learn that job, Mr. Sir...
The token slips into the slot as I slip through the turn style, but immediately circle back to where I started to retrieve the briefcase I leave on the ground.
Shattering the silence, the alarm positions my heart at the end of a tuning fork, but it fails to play the right tune-at least today.
Doused by the shower head-emitted stream, I drown in the water's irony. Of course it would have to rain-on all days, this one-just to make me late.
Dawn, ordinarily opening day's curtains to the light, only succeeds in shading the charcoal strata to smoky gray, as I creep, inch-deep, among the already employed, assaulted by the beams of light staring at me like laser eyes from the other side of the road-until the jackknifed trailer slices into my day.
Redirected to the other side, I become one of them-not in employment, but in direction-only a single exit from my goal, forcing me to bypass it-the exit, that is, and not the goal-I hope! The way my heart now pounds, it will soon need a bypass of its own.
You'll never make it now, but keep going, anyway! Imagine me-leader and led. I wouldn't particularly want one of those jobs, much less both. Ah, but the job...
Shaking from autumn's chill, my car penetrates the gray blur, needled by pins falling from the sky.
Ahead, ahead, but you've fallen behind
. There it is-or was- the metallic bullet accepting its last passenger as I futilely run toward the fence, caught by the hot, carbon-laced jet blast spewed by its engines, which wrench open my briefcase and spit its contents into the whirling, moisture-laden air.
Booming skyward, the aircraft is immediately swallowed by the sulfur sky, only to leave me with the realization that I'm left on the ground. As I snag the spilled copy of my resume with my foot to stop the wind from carrying it-and my dreams-away, I also realize that it is still covered with my slipper. And my pajama leg hangs over it.
Slipping back into my car, it feels strangely like my bed.
Now the alarm really goes off...
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. The words rotate in my mind the way the minute hand unwinds on my clock. But still I dose... Oh, I hope my tie's on straight... You have it already... Yes, my degree... I'm sure I can learn that job, Mr. Sir...
The token slips into the slot as I slip through the turn style, but immediately circle back to where I started to retrieve the briefcase I leave on the ground.
Shattering the silence, the alarm positions my heart at the end of a tuning fork, but it fails to play the right tune-at least today.
Doused by the shower head-emitted stream, I drown in the water's irony. Of course it would have to rain-on all days, this one-just to make me late.
Dawn, ordinarily opening day's curtains to the light, only succeeds in shading the charcoal strata to smoky gray, as I creep, inch-deep, among the already employed, assaulted by the beams of light staring at me like laser eyes from the other side of the road-until the jackknifed trailer slices into my day.
Redirected to the other side, I become one of them-not in employment, but in direction-only a single exit from my goal, forcing me to bypass it-the exit, that is, and not the goal-I hope! The way my heart now pounds, it will soon need a bypass of its own.
You'll never make it now, but keep going, anyway! Imagine me-leader and led. I wouldn't particularly want one of those jobs, much less both. Ah, but the job...
Shaking from autumn's chill, my car penetrates the gray blur, needled by pins falling from the sky.
Ahead, ahead, but you've fallen behind
. There it is-or was- the metallic bullet accepting its last passenger as I futilely run toward the fence, caught by the hot, carbon-laced jet blast spewed by its engines, which wrench open my briefcase and spit its contents into the whirling, moisture-laden air.
Booming skyward, the aircraft is immediately swallowed by the sulfur sky, only to leave me with the realization that I'm left on the ground. As I snag the spilled copy of my resume with my foot to stop the wind from carrying it-and my dreams-away, I also realize that it is still covered with my slipper. And my pajama leg hangs over it.
Slipping back into my car, it feels strangely like my bed.
Now the alarm really goes off...
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ExperTrans voice-overs services
ExperTrans interpreting translation services
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