Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Sereously though, has the Queen actually ever read anything by this guuy? Can I imagine her snuggling up on her throne with a copy? No. I can, however, imagine her as that (racist, prejudice, homophobic) old woman in the Little Britain sketch, who spews out a fountain of vomit when she finds out the book she's been reading is by 'That Indian fellow with the fatwa.' Now that's a more probable scenario.
So Britain gives the all mighty up yours to Muslims, and some angry Pakistani's have gone for a walk together. This morning across the Metro front cover is a burning Union flag above which the culprits appear to be more blissfully overjoyed than remotely angry. To top it off, they hold up tasteless pictures of a sinister bearded man with glasses. In one of them he points his index finger like he's telling someone off.
He thinks: this pose will boost my charisma.
We think: who is this man, and what has he to do with Salaman Rushdie or the Queen?
Perhaps in Pakistan, flag-burning occaisions are a great opportunity for advertising and spreading political propoganda otherwise irrelevant to the subject matter. Imagine...amdist an angerred crowd of fist shaking, flag burning and head bobbing one man raises a sign that reads 'Rajput Honey Mangoes: Vorld Class!'...immortalised on the cover of the Times. Classic.
With all the joking aside, a conclusuion is due, and here it is.
Salman Rushdie is an eccentric who pissed off the wrong people with his desire to pull off something meaninglessly contravertial for the publicity stunt of his carreer. He is also a spineless, ireverant Bastard.
The Queen is a dirty, old un-dying witch, for awarding a knighthood to a man who caused a number of deaths, a great deal of chaos including political strife between the UK and Iran, offence to the extremist and un-extremist alike, and shamelessly direspected the sanctity of one of the largest religions in the world and the memory of a man who was human perfection, all to no apparent end. The world has learnt nothing from Satanic Verses but ugliness in all of its forms.
And finally, to the enraged mob of layabouts who get together at the prospect of some flag-burning activity everytime the opportunity rears its head, our sentiment is this:
By inciting violence and acting like a pack of animals, you are not only affirming the Media's portrayal of Islam being synonymous with terror, but you are also doing the greatest wrong against a man who came as a blessing to mankind. Congragulations, in your attempts to look big as Muslims, you've succeeded in establishing a new low in the art of irony; You've corrupted Mohammad's (saw) message of peace by professing to defend it with your violence.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Apparently writing to Tony Blair about one's life, and then asking him if he'd be interrested in spending a day with you is very theraputic.
Hinna's done it.
Verdict: I laugh till my sides hurt and then decide that I too shall write Tony Blair a letter, detailing all the major and minor goings on in my life, past, prestnt and future. I will also tell him I'm glad he's no longer prime minister and that his wife has a posterior of generous proportions.
There is nothing delicate about Indonesian buffalo skin chips. Why they call it a delicacy is beyond me. The dodgy smell and aftertaste combined with all the gros things Sarah told me previously about how said chips are made, almost made me gag. The office bedlam which ensued was rather amusing though.
Verdict: Never offer Munia buffalo skin chips without telling her what they are.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
At the beginning, the master articulator falls silent. When no words come, the frustration brews like something in the belly of the mountains, and only the tears speak, in sudden, torential spells, like summer rain.
I could not move you in any way.
And you? You complain that you could not help me, yet you tell me I should never have been waiting to be saved. You tell me I should learn, I should become complete in myself. You tell me I should mend, change, grow into something harder.
But you cannot will away a void, the depths of which have hollowed deeper over a period of 24 years, in spite of all your convictions about how it...how I aught to be.
Know that I never needed you to save me. I only wanted to be yours, just as I was.
I have no more illusions about my place in your life now.
So I give up trying
to make you smile
to engage your interest
to catch your eye
to communicate
to share
I give up
Believing you are mine
This evening last week.
I give up
thos feelings which turn something nostalgic
that your smell still awakens in me.
I give up
wanting to touch you
and become naturally drawn to the superficial warmth of complete strangers.
I give up
the heart ache
and give vent to hard, genuine laughter.
And momentarily, there is no meaning.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I haven't got much to do.
Rasty Nats at Bar Stucks
I have a tummy ache too.
Tis 17:33 and as always I'm sitting here trying to will the digital clock numbers to change faster. I wonder if work will ever really become stimulating in the least...as opposed to just the general spells of buissiness amongst dry days we've been experiencing.
If this is gonna be the rest of my summer I think I might turn senile. By the looks of things though, even if I could have afforded to go OFF (OFF I SAY!) abroad before, i sure as hell can't anymore. Not with the amount of rent and home utility I'm going to have to start paying.
And yet, life continues. Like an insensitive, heartless bastard. And I've had my fare share of those.
I used to wonder if being subjected to that kind of atitude could eventually start turning me heartless too. Far from it, seems to have had the opposite effect.
But how much can a person tollerate, especially after realising what's begun to happen between the silent exchange of human characters?
So Now I'm wonderring if being subjected to that kind of atitde for much longer can eventually drive me away for good. I think so, but we're yet to find out
Any way, now I'm having a pop arguement with A.J about Jessica Alba (gag reflex) and the double standards of men. Just called him a hypocrite, so why the hell is he laughing?
Oh I see.
I should have learnt a lesson or 2 from the likes of him and Tas. The messes that being naive has gotten me into.
Any way, now he's gonna have a complete piss-take out of me over Miyavi. Ah yes, and here is the pop in response to the Miyavi link.
A.J: May Allah have mercy on you.
Amin.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
Meanwhile in the field of our toils:
a) I think 'The Mohammedan Bean' is the perfect name for the Muslim Aid coffee shop, and I don't care what anyone thinks. That or 'QahWah' --It's time with gve the Coffee back to the Arabs, where it came from.
b) Executive Committee meetings are a waste of paper.
c) Two Algerians and a Bangladeshi were arguing over how much a coffee shop can make in a day. Sounds like a joke. A bit like Two Muslims and a Monk...but that one's true too. I promise. They were walking down the street with lots to carry.
Cry. Cry because after you've cried and there are no more tears left, life will carry on.
Today begins the beginning of the end, and I will finally do my time for my sins. I feel like the guy in The Mechanist, my first good night's sleep in an entire year awaits.
Death is the road to awe.
-The Fountain
Friday, June 08, 2007
Just tryin' to keep it in line
You say you wanna move on and
You say I'm falling behind
Can you read my mind?
I never really gave up on
Breakin' out of this two-star town
I got the green light
I got a little fight
I'm gonna turn this thing around
Can you read my mind?
The good old days, the honest man
The restless heart, the Promised Land
A subtle kiss that no one sees
A broken wrist and a big trapeze
Oh well I don't mind, if you don't mind
'Cause I don't shine if you don't shine
Before you go, can you read my mind?
It’s funny how you just break down
Waiting on some sign
I pull up to the front of your driveway
With magic soaking my spine
Can you read my mind?
The teenage queen, the loaded gun
The drop dead dream, the Chosen One
A southern drawl, the world unseen
A city wall and a trampoline
Oh well I don't mind if you don't mind
'Cause I don't shine if you don't shine
Before you jump,Tell me what you find..When you read my mind
Slipping in my faith until I fall
You never returned that call
Woman, open the door, don't let it sting
I wanna breathe that fire again
She said I don't mind if you don't mind
'Cause I don't shine if you don't shine
Put your back on me
Put your back on me
Put your back on me
The stars are blazing like rebel diamonds, cut out of the sun
Can you read my mind
-The Killers
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Once you're pregnant you don't really have a choice about giving birth any more because there is only one way that baby can come out. Iit is painful and since it's also inevitable, you might as well face it.
Similarly, once you're brought into this world, there is only one way you're getting out of it, and staying is not an option.
Our souls are imprisoned by the organic fibers of our boddies and the laws of nature. Our immortal spiritual selves are dragged in through one reality and out another. We will undergo death as we undergo life as we have undergone birth as we have undergone exisiting in the womb. We will undergo death as we undergo it every instant of our lives without realising...Like a staircase down the eventual inevitable.
I'm going to die.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
And innocence is not only in the child's mind. It cannot be measured with age or maturity. It doesn't relate to a key number of landmarks in every human's life-time.
Even in the lack of innocence is innocence.
A white icing dolloped, mini-sponge cake is offered to me. I consume it and wonder why. I don't even like sponge cake. And then I think about my Great-grandfather and Nene unexpecedly...and her room, decorated with Greek and Cypriot trappings. The clutter was a neat and meticulous one. There was barely an inch of wall visible between all the pictures and posters. Her deceased husband's photo hung above the TV and I never forget Patsy-the-piss-Artist telling her he was a very handsome man. A small old lady, with jet black hair was very proud then. She only knew how to write her name, and that she could do in 'eski Turkce' ...Arabic text.
Maybe I shouldn't care about stuff like money. Maybe I should say pish and shake my fist at my persisent overdraft, not bother thinking twice about responsibility, and just go man. Just go. With the world gone so wrong, you can't help but think it's all ending for us sooner or later ...it's only fair isn't it? And what am I doing getting married any way, with the mental maturity of a 17 -year old? Why try to be a wife where there is no need?
Razaul said i looked 21 yesterday. That's gotta count for something.
To think the pain would resonate thus far, and internalise with some deeper hurting. Something you cannot cry out over or cry about. I never thought I would think to regret this time last year. But now I do. I regret...Shmendrik: I am sorry, I have done you evil and cannot undo it. Unicorn: No. Unicorns are in the world again. No sorrow will live in me as long as that joy, save one, but I thank you for that part too. Fare well good magician, I will try to go home.
Happy Birthday, flinch shaped space.
24-years ago tomorrow, you were brought screaming into this world.
Now forever keep your silence.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Owch.
24.
Disenchanted and deeply dissapointed in what I'm growing out of and into.
A feeling of despair and very real emptiness.
Regret.
Hurt.
I dont know if I can pull through this month...I think I might bleed to death. Hmmm...would that be such a tragedy? These days I think I believe too often that my absence wouldn't cause anyone too great a heart ache. Really, Elest isn't filling any great voids in anyones life. She isn't bringing infinate joy to her loved ones. She isn't producing any increadible masterpieces to benefit mankind in the future. She simply just isnt and doesn't, that's what she is and does.
No, it wouldn't be such a great tragedy if I bled to death.
You can't fix the unfixable or go back and change the inevitable. You can't be anything more than what you've become, even if it was all you ever wanted. In the end, we're just left alone with our mistakes, and we get by with all the guilt, and the regret, and the despair, and the crazy nostalgia which is all thanks to nothing and no one but you.
If I could turn back time, would I have done things differently? I don't know. But I am so very flawed, and so very sorry.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
- 3 bars of Divine
- and a sachet of Fair Trade instant hot chocolate, with a happy looking 3rd world man's picture on the back. He wears a hat and glasses, and his name BEs Eusebio Bellen.
Irelevant verdict: With all this hype about FaceBook, no one bothers to read blogs any more.
Meanwhile, in the weird and wonderful world of Elle est Pixi's blog-mind, the most weird and wonderful happenings are amock. (<-- that looks wrong to me but apparently amuck is spealt with an 'o' and not a 'u'. No matter, I shall get something else wrong.)
Surely being bored at work must be one of the worst things in the world, because it entails the brain-cell murderring process of willingly WAITING for the next hour of your life to get wasted away so that you can pack up and go home at last.
And another thing: We don't actually articulate our own names for any purpose other than when introducing ourselves to others, even though it is our own. Throughout our entire lives! As of now, I will address myself in the 3rd person. Get some more wear out of this thing which apparently belongs to me, but is used alot more by everyone else.
Also, as of now I think I will observe more silence. I think I will do this and be more contemplative. I think it may be beneficial to my character.
And now I shall leave you with the thought which follows.
May the Force be with you always.
Literature in general, after all, shows signs of foreign influences and concerns itself with the fundamentals of human life yet fails to exhibit the curiously inbred qualities of fairy-tale plots.
-Maria Tatar
Monday, April 30, 2007
by: Elle est Sev
This morning I took pictures of Arabella Churchill, her Husband, and the Farmer who owns the Glastonbury Festival field. The farmer also owns cows. They produce lots of milk every day. His wife is a midwife, which doesn't mean that she is in the middle of being his wife and being something else, but that she delivers babies.
They all gave Saif a cheque to build 6 houses in Aceh, for the Tsunami survivors.
Arabella Churchill's husband juggled pens.
I fetched some apples.
He juggled those too.
Then the Farmer who owns the Glastonbury Festival field shook my hand and mistook me for Joniad's sister.
Jonaid calls me sis now and I call him bro.
I had curry for lunch.
The End.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
And how are your runner beans this Sunday last month?
Tripping? No, not really. Merely finding ample time to fall in love again.
MIYAVI LOVE ALL ARROUND...AND ARROUND and arround until we're nice and dizzy and the world which is turning too fast for my liking spins faster and faster, and 'Here! You wanna spin!? Spin all you like till I puke! You benign tumor!'
When you stop there is something comforting about having messed up your sense of balance and bearing behind the darkness of eyelids and hands clasped over face.
Ryo is singing waaay too loud for 1:34 in the morning. I'm surprised the neighbours haven't reported us already...but then I guess he couldn't beat the Irish people and their toilet music (the music you hear from below whilst sitting on the toilet) so maybe it's ok.
I'm glad Ryo appreciates Miyavi.
I'm glad he doesn't launch into mad bouts of intense jealousy and male-ravalry-contempt towards him.
I'm glad he doesn't kick arround furniture and grind his teeth over the fact that I adore Miyavi so very much, and think that he totally rocks.
I'm glad he's mature like that, and realises that Miyavi could never be a real threat to our relationship.
Not unless I knew him personally.
I think I will go to bed now and dream about what to do with my hair.
May the force be with you always.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Ladies, gentleman an hermaphrodites, welcome back to another session of blog-angsting, live from Whitechappel, London. I'm your host, Needy and Depressed. In the multiple personality sense, because We are lonely. This is Needy...say 'hi' to the audience, Needy.
NEEDY: 'Hi!'
DEPRESSED: Not so enthusiastic like, you fool. And you already know me, I'm Depressed. :)
Look ma', I'm writing captions! (shows hands, as though they had something to do with it)
- Two Sudanese children express their joy at the aid provided at Sakali camp Darfour
- Iraqi civilians recieve emergency relief
- A young Sudanese boy gets an emergency food pack
- The Muslim Aid mascot was a benign tumor at the GPU
- Qurbani in Alkay; needy Ruskis receive sacrificial ovine beasts
- 2 African chimpanzees pick each others nits
- An eskimo sneezes in a desolate, dessert of ice; the sneeze echos but no one hears it
- Someone savours a buiscuit; whole moon, half moon and total eclips
- Borris chugs a glass of Vodka
- A Chinese man romances his wife, but the neighbours think he's bullying her again
- A telephone rings in Kofi Annan's house
- Ariel Sharon farts and pretends it was his dog
- A young man falls in love...or thinks he does
- Jermain Jackson wonders if he ate a bad nut
- Leon Trotsky turns in his grave
- and Elest swivels in her swively chair
Life resumes, unperturbed.
I think that Gwidbi could almost be a word, and a funny bald one with thick spectacles and a bit of a vertical challenge. Gwidbi. Now if you'll excuse me, nature calls and Needy must answer.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Place: Work
Doing: Some Annual review-angst blog mongrel of a task
Reading: ??
In general: God of Small Things & Akuma no Ororon. Again.
Hearing: Mr. Children, Hana-Memento Mori
Feeling: Like a razor blade
In love with: No one
Hating: Do you want me to start??!!
No. Indifferent to: Ororon and Miyavi
Had the most heinously shiKKKt (with a tripple K) weekend in the history of crap weekends, and I've just noticed that my blog has turned into something really angry and pissed off at the world in general. This is because Ell est. As in am. Pissed off at the world in general.
But the sun is casting smaller, less troubling shadows, and the wind is carrying spring warmth even into the early hours of the evening, oblivious to us in the minutia of our bitter, politically charged, self important lives.
So what on earth am I supposed to do about it? The human condition dictates that man is born and will die alone. The earth's history dictates that our lives don't amount to a mili-second in the life time of the universe. And every satisfaction every achievement in our miniscule little personal-bug-existences, important only to us, is ultimately the death of our desires and ambitions, what the F** is there to do, really? REALLY?
I hate myself.
hate myself.
ate myself.
te myself.
e myself.
myself.
yself.
self.
elf. Lo and behold, 'tis the upsidedown half pyramid of self deprecation.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Because the essence of his forgiveness lies in his word and in his mystery
Because although God sends us the message
It is our task to decipher it
Because when we open our arms
The earth takes in only a hollow and senseless shell
Far away now is the soul in its eternal glory
Because it is in pain that we find the meaning of life
And the state of grace that we lose when we are born
Because God, in his infinite wisdom, puts the solution in our hands
And because it is only in his physical absence,
That the place He occupies in our souls is reaffirmed
--Pan's Labyrinth