I am in quite a quandary. The road ahead of me has split in two and I must choose one or the other way. The path I have travelled until now has been well-defined, though rocky in parts, sometimes precipitous, often winding – however, it follows a well defined course and the goal is somewhere up ahead, discernible and eventually attainable. The new path that has presented itself looks well paved, and straight, but mist hides its end. What lies at the end of this new path is anyone’s guess. It could be a paradise or a precipice.
One road is known, safe, albeit arduous but promising a goal that is adequate and well-thought of. The other, newer road mystifying, new, uncertain, fascinating…
Being on the horns of a dilemma is not a comfortable position to be on, and either choice at this stage looks equally attractive and unattractive. The new path has the mystique of novelty and the mystery of an obscured goal that could well be the best thing that could eventuate. The old path is dependable, maybe boring, often difficult, but with the end clearly in sight. Either choice may make the one not taken infinitely more attractive. Have you ever been in this situation?
Sleep brings good counsel, they say, and I don’t have to decide until next week. I shall have to ruminate upon the matter and analyse it all fully. Then the best decision will be made according to the facts that I have at hand. Being no gambler, methinks I can see where my choice lies…
When Dan Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code” was first published it created an enormous controversy. Personally, I could not understand why, as the book is a novel, a fictional work. The author may have presented his characters so, and used factual references in such a convincing way to highlight the intricacies of his plot, such that many people viewed the novel as the gospel truth. When I read the book, I enjoyed it and then after a discussion with family and friends, I put it away. While he is no Tolstoy or Mann, Dan Brown is a consummate storyteller and he can weave a plot as the best of them.
When “The Da Vinci Code” film first came out (2006) it created a fresh wave of controversy. People loved it, people hated it with a passion, fundamentalists condemned it and burned copies of the book anew, protesting it was blasphemous. Some people had not read the book and saw the movie, others read the book and would not see the movie. As for me, having read the book and being aware of all the heated debate and the hullabaloo I finally decided to watch it as my local video shop had the DVD on sale for a paltry sum!
I was disappointed. If you think that Ron Howard had at his disposal a fascinating story with some fantastic locations to take advantage of, and his pick of lead actors, the resulting film is pedestrian and tiresome. The first 65 minutes of the film is dismally dark and annoyingly brown and black. You’d think if you have had a murder in one of the world’s biggest museums, the first thing you’d do is turn the lights on. No, it’s all meant to be “atmospheric”. Fair enough, but what about even the rooms that are lit? No, they have to be lit with a 25 watt globe, it all contributes to the atmosphere. I kept catching myself saying, “When is the bloody sun going to rise?” As a result, some of the wonderful shots inside the Louvre were completely wasted. Yes, the sun does rise, eventually, but we are soon cast into the gloom once again – more atmosphere…
Tom Hanks cast as Dr. Robert Langdon and Audrey Tautou as French Agent Sophie Neveu display as much chemistry as does a celery stick and a bat would if locked together in a room. They are so serious it’s funny. In fact, the whole movie is remarkable for its sparse humour and it’s almost “religious” intensity. Ian McKellen, playing the role of Sir Leigh Teabing, is the only enjoyable bit of casting and he has some of the best lines, too. Paul Bettany cast as Silas is also rather good and plays the masochistic monk with much gusto. Which brings me to the rather bad screenplay. Hanks and Tatou have some really dull lines to deliver and they deliver them with as much enthusiasm as a thirsty drover in a pub with no beer.
Much of the finer historical points of the book are lost in the film, the vignettes of historical flashback inserted rather gratuitously here and there. Direction is rather lame and unexciting, with some aerial shots trying to capture an “epic” feel, but looking more like something one may have seen out of a traffic reporter’s helicopter. The film is long (and tedious) at 149 minutes (theatre) and 179 minutes (DVD version). It was endless and the climax was very underwhelming. Ron Howard may have been the wrong choice for director. I think Steven Spielberg may have made a better, more exciting, more involving and engaging film.
I think you get my drift - I did not particularly like this film. I would be very interested to hear what other people who have seen it, thought of it…
For Art Sunday today, Francisco Zurbarán, a Spanish artist. He was born in the suburb of Fuente de Cantos in Estramadura, on the boundaries of Andalusia, Nov., 1598; died probably at Madrid about 1662. From his early years he showed great aptitude for drawing. His parents, honest peasants, placed no obstacle to his artistic tastes. While a young boy he frequented the studio of Juan de las Roclas, of whom he became a favourite pupil. Zurbarán's apprenticeship was undertaken in Seville, where he met Velazquez and became one of the city's official painters. His commission to decorate the king's palace in Madrid was most probably the result of his continuing friendship with the older, and more successful, Spanish artist.
Zurbarán was chiefly a portrait painter and his religious subjects, depicting meditating saints, found favour with southern Spain's clergy. From 1628, he worked on a number of paintings to be sent to monasteries in the Spanish colony of Guadalupe. After 1640 his austere, harsh, hard-edged style was unfavourably compared to the sentimental religiosity of Murillo and Zurbarán's reputation declined. In 1658, he moved to Madrid in search of work and renewed his contact with Velazquez. Zurbarán died in poverty and obscurity.
Rather than look at his religious paintings and portraits, I’m showing a single painting of Zurbarán, a still life. This is formal treatment of citrus fruit and blossoms with a solitary cup and saucer on the right. There is a symmetry and harmony of colours in this still life, with a quiet introspective air, perhaps sobered by the very dark background. Nevertheless the citrus fruits shine forth in glorious yellows and oranges and the delicate blooms that crown the basket of fruit seem to be dancing a merry jig on top of them. The wistful little rose next to the cup has a story to tell and one can imagine a scene full of drama in the same room where this tableau was standing.
Lemons Basket of lemons Smell of spring, summer blossom. Bitter peel, sour flesh.
A news item about sky-rocketing desertions from the US army in Iraq caught my eye today. “According to the Army, about nine in every 1,000 soldiers deserted in fiscal year 2007, which ended Sept. 30, compared to nearly seven per 1,000 a year earlier. Overall, 4,698 soldiers deserted this year, compared to 3,301 last year.”
Is it any wonder? Think about it! Quite apt for Song Saturday is Suzanne Vega’s “The Queen and the Soldier”. This fantastic singer-songwriter from New York is making a comeback after quite a few years absence. I have always enjoyed her songs and this song is one of my favourites. Enjoy!
It is very good now and then to go out and have a lovely meal with compatible company in a restaurant where the food and service are good and the milieu is agreeable. Such was the case tonight when we went and dined in Melbourne’s “Waterfront on Station” Restaurant. The restaurant is just outside Station Pier (Melbourne’s passenger ship harbour) and the picture windows face out over the port, where one can watch the ships sailing in and out and the seabirds scrambling for tasty seafood morsels. Meanwhile, the lapping of the waves outside and the companionable hubbub of fellow diners inside make of the experience an extremely pleasant one.
It is no surprise that the restaurant specialises in seafood, given its prime location on the waterfront. If you are a seafood aficionado, the luxury seafood platter is for you: It is crammed full of king prawns, black-lip mussels, pipis, king scallops, oysters, Moreton Bay bugs, blue swimmer crabs, baby octopus and smoked salmon. A feast fit for Neptune and at a price of over $200, it can quite comfortably feed four people. But if you don wish to share, you ne may order for yourself the sealed Atlantic salmon, served with saffron, mussels, leeks and potato broth with basil essence, which is very good. Our tastes were simpler still and we ordered for entrées, beetroot and goat’s cheese salad with spinach leaf garnish and the salt and pepper calamari with harissa mayonnaise. For the main course, the excellent whole grilled flounder with caper butter sauce and fresh lemon, rocket salad and French fries on the side, as well as the char-grilled salmon cutlet.
Japanese inspired dishes can also be had, including sushi. If seafood is not quite your thing, steaks may also be enjoyed at this restaurant while your fish-loving friends gourmandise on the fruits of the sea.
The restaurant seats over 300 people and there is a downstairs brasserie and an upstairs dining room, as well as bar facilities. The long waiting list for bookings on popular days of the week (especially the closer it gets to Christmas) are enough credentials for the quality of the food and the service. The restaurant has a good website, which you can view here. So happy virtual eating! By the way, I do not have shares in this restaurant, nor do I own it in part or wholly. I just enjoy the ambience and the food there… Enjoy your weekend!
It’s Word Thursday today and my word is “bedlam”, as sometimes at work it really is! This is a word with an interesting, albeit unsavoury past. It is derived from the name of a priory in London’s Bishopsgate, called St Mary of Bethlehem, built in 1247. Next to the religious establishment, there was founded by 1377 a hospital that looked after the poor and destitute. The mentally ill were also admitted there and in the 16th century the priory was dissolved, but the hospital persisted exclusively as an asylum for the insane.
It was known as the Bethlehem Royal Hospital and in 1675 moved to a new site in Moorgate. The “lunatics” in this hospital were not looked after well, the cruel and primitive “treatments” often supplemented by brutal mistreatment by sadistic staff. The public’s fascination with the insane and the insatiable morbid curiosity of “sane” people led to the Hospital charging two pence for admission of visitors, so that they could come and stare (or jeer) at the unfortunate inmates. This terrible practice continued well into the 19th century.
The visitors and the disturbance they caused, more often than not made the already troubled patients to become noisy and disruptive. This atmosphere of chaos, disorder and raucous cacophony became associated with the Bethlehem Hospital, and soon the shortened word Bethlehem - “Bedlam”, was used to denote “madness”. Bedlam was also a place for assignations and secret rendezvous. In 1698, “The London Spy” had this to say of the place: “All I can say for Bedlam is thus: It is an almshouse for madmen, a showing room for harlots, a sure market for lechers, a dry walk for loiterers.”
The hospital was moved yet again in 1815 to a new building constructed especially for it near Lambeth Rd, the same building that is housing the War Museum today. In this new home, two centuries after the vile practice first began, spectators were finally banned from observing the inmates and more humane treatments began to be used. The word “bedlam”, however, has persisted…
bedlam |ˈbedləm| noun 1 a scene of uproar and confusion: There was bedlam in the courtroom. 2 historical ( Bedlam) a former insane asylum in London. • archaic used allusively to refer to any insane asylum. ORIGIN late Middle English: Early form of Bethlehem , referring to the hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem in London, used as an asylum for the insane.
The illustration is Hogarth's “A Rake's Progress - Bedlam” The original painting is housed in Sir John Soane's Museum, London. Hogarth’s images and Bedlam;s notorious history inspired Mark Robson’s 1946 film “Bedlam” starring Boris Karloff . Worthwhile having a look at it if you come across it.
Context is all-important in how we experience our lives. Nothing is absolute, we can only exist in a state of temporary constancy while floating on a sea of ever-changing relativity. Situation and circumstance are coloured by the environment of each unique experience while the people who are around us, beside us, with us and against us, will make of the place a paradise or a hell. Time changes our contextual framework and the relativity of our increasing years dilates or contracts our memories making of the past, as viewed from the present, a distorting mirror. I mentioned yesterday how I visited Brisbane and how it brought to my mind a previous existence, so distant in the past and yet quite familiar. I viewed the familiar places as though for the first time. As I looked through the lens of times past my present reality and the new context had changed them all… Drinking Bitter Coffee at the Café of Broken Promises
Quite by chance, I went by the Café
Where once, a lifetime ago, we had sought
Shelter from Autumn rain.
I wandered in – half expecting to see you smiling,
Beckoning me from that same booth
That we had shared, while grey afternoon wore on,
And rain, thankfully, kept falling...
We shook the rain off our hair – I remember –
And how we laughed, as the tabletop was spread
With hundreds of diamonds; raindrops that caught
The pale yellow light of the bare bulb above,
Shattering its puny glow into a million sunrays
That illumined richly for that moment
The deepest cellars of our souls.
We sipped the steaming coffee and it was sweet nectar,
Although we clean forgot to sugar it.
Our legs brushed under the table
And your eyes promised me a hundred happinesses;
“Tomorrow...” you had whispered and I only smiled,
My silence more eloquent than a thousand pictures...
I order coffee yet again this Spring morning
And though the sun shines brightly outside,
I am sure I can hear the drumming of rain on the tin roof.
I lose count of the lumps of sugar
I am drowning in my cup, but each sip of coffee
More bitter than the one before it.
I stretch my legs beneath the table
Encountering a bottomless abyss,
While from the neighbouring booth, someone laughs,
And says quite loudly: “It was yesterday!”
By chance, I find myself once again
Drinking bitter coffee in some city Café;
A tawdry, cheap, noisy, smoky place,
Where one would never go to more than once...
I am in Brisbane today for work. It’s a two-hour flight up and I came up this morning and going home this evening. I like Brisbane as it is a beautiful city on the river and has lovely subtropical gardens and a bustling, cosmopolitan lifestyle. We used to live here when I was growing up and whenever I go back I remember with fondness those times.
Brisbane is a port and the capital of the state of Queensland, Australia. It the nation's third largest city. It lies astride the Brisbane River on the southern slopes of the Taylor Range, 19 km above the river's mouth at Moreton Bay. The site of the city was first explored in 1823 by John Oxley and was occupied in 1824 by a penal colony, which had moved from Redcliffe, 35 km northeast. The early name, Edenglassie, was changed to honour Sir Thomas Brisbane, former governor of New South Wales, when the convict settlement was declared a town in 1834. Officially, freemen could not settle within 80 km of the colony until its penal function was abandoned in 1839, but this ban proved ineffective.
There was a short-lived rivalry for eminence with the town of Cleveland, which was ended when Cleveland's wharves burned in 1854, allowing Brisbane to become the leading port. Brisbane was proclaimed a municipality in 1859 and it became the capital of newly independent Queensland that same year. Gazetted a city in 1902, it was joined during the 1920s with South Brisbane to form the City of Greater Brisbane. Its municipal government, headed by a lord mayor, holds very broad powers. The Brisbane statistical division, including the cities of Ipswich and Redcliffe, has close economic and social ties to the city.
Brisbane is the hub of many rail lines and highways, which bring produce from a vast agricultural hinterland, stretching west to the Eastern Highlands, the Darling Downs, and beyond. The city's port, which can accommodate ships of 34,000 tons, exports wool, grains, dairy products, meat, sugar, preserved foods, and mineral sands. The metropolitan area, also industrialised with more than half of the state's manufacturing capacity, has heavy and light engineering works, food-processing plants, shipyards, oil refineries, sawmills, and factories.
The halves of the city on either side of the river are connected by several bridges and ferries. Various sites of interest are the University of Queensland at St. Lucia (established in 1909), Griffith University (1971), Parliament House (1869), the state museum (1855) and art gallery (1895), Anglican and Roman Catholic cathedrals, and many parks and gardens. The Southbank precinct along the riverside is a complex of exhibition halls, galleries, cafés, restaurants, shops, parks and conference centres, always worth a visit. Population of the city is about 1.2 million people.
The weather today was gorgeous and it was exactly the wrong sort of day to be confined in a windowless conference room going through interviewing processes. Nevertheless, all went well and I was pleased with the day’s work. I was quite surprised how green everything was in the city and around it. The last few rains have certainly made a difference. The jacarandas were in riotous bloom and their mauve flowers graced many a street of the city. They were counterpointed by the creamy fragrant blooms of the frangipanis and the exuberant red plumes of blooms of the flame-coloured Poinciana trees. The city seemed rather less congested than Melbourne and the people were more laid-back. No doubt a more relaxed lifestyle as befits the subtropical climate. I always enjoy visiting Brisbane and it is a wonderful holiday destination as it is the gateway for the beauties and excitement of Queensland. For my readers in the USA, this is as close to Florida as you get, Australian-style!
Here are some sites that give you further information:
For Movie Monday today, a classic film from France. It is Henri-Georges Clouzot’s 1953 film, “Wages of Fear” (“Le Salaire de la Peur” ). In the Central American jungle supplies of nitroglycerine are needed at a remote oil field in order to put out an oil well fire. The oil company offers big money to drivers who will take the dangerous cargo of high explosive in two trucks. Nitroglycerine is susceptible to self-detonation from jolts, so potentially, the drivers could blow themselves up to smithereens if they drive recklessly over the 300 miles of bad, winding, mountain roads. Nevertheless, four men take up the offer to deliver the supplies of explosive in two trucks. A tense rivalry develops between the two sets of drivers and on the rough remote roads the slightest jolt can result in death.
The characters are less than admirable, more anti-heroes than protagonists, but one cannot help but sympathise with them as they begin their terror-filled journey. It is one of the most renowned of suspense thriller movies, the suspense not one of mystery but rather one of impending doom. A Damoclean sword hanging by a thread over the head of the drivers. It is a fascinating film and Clouzot proves his talent as he craftily manages one suspenseful scene after another.
Yves Montand and Charles Vanel are excellent in their roles and the whole movie must have pleased Georges Arnaud (the author of the novel the screenplay is based on) greatly. If you haven’t seen this film, it’s well worth your while to ferret it out and have a look at it. It’s tense, dark, thrilling, well-made and has an important message about freedom and the lengths to which people will go to attain it. Just be careful, though that you do not by mistake watch the lamentable 1977 remake also called “Wages of Fear” (or “Sorcerer”). This latter one is an abominable film not worth the celluloid it’s made on. Please visit my 360 blog for the MOVIE MONDAY TOUR!
Remembrance Day on 11 November is a special day for everyone around the world who believes that war is an inexcusable barbarity in our days. It is set aside to remember all those men and women who were killed during the two World Wars and other conflicts, but it is also a day that we should devote to the pursuit of worldwide peace.
At one time the day was known as Armistice Day and was renamed Remembrance Day after the Second World War. It is also known as “Poppy Day”, because it is traditional to wear an artificial poppy. These are sold by charities dedicated to helping war veterans and their families
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. (Fourth stanza of 'For the Fallen' by Laurence Binyon - 1869 - 1943)
The drawing above by Käthe Kollwitz is named “Unemployed” and it highlights the sensitivities of this artist in themes connected with social problems that revolve around war and its aftermath.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod.
All went lame, all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. – Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs Bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, – My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
The following poem is very evocative and really makes you feel what it would be like to be there. It's by Wilfred Owen, a WWI poet who wrote about the horrors of war, of which he experienced a great deal, suffering shell shock at one stage. He was killed in action in 1918, just before the war ended, and was posthumously awarded the Military Cross for his courage as a second lieutenant.
THE SHOW by Wilfred Owen
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, As unremembering how I rose or why, And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques.
Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled. It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.
By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped Round myriad warts that might be little hills.
From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept, And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.
(And smell came up from those foul openings As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)
On dithering feet upgathered, more and more, Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines, All migrants from green fields, intent on mire.
Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns, Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.
I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten, I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten.
Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean, I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.
And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.
Today is Remembrance Day. This is the day Australians remember those who have died in war. At 11am on 11 November we pause to remember the sacrifice of those men and women who have died or suffered in wars and conflicts and all those who have served during the past 100 years. In 1918 the armistice that ended World War I came into force, bringing to an end four years of hostilities that saw 61,919 Australians die at sea, in the air, and on foreign soil. Few Australian families were left untouched by the events of World War I – “the war to end all wars” most had lost a father, son, daughter, brother, sister or friend.
Fittingly, Art Sunday today is dedicated to this day and I feature the work of German artist Käthe Kollwitz (1867-1945), who lost her only son in action. Peter Kollwitz, 18 years old, died in October 1914 near Diksmuide in Belgium. The pain never left her. All her life she used her extraordinary ability to express human suffering to champion the rights of underprivileged people. She produced hundreds of dramatic, emotion-filled etchings, woodcuts, and lithographs, generally in black and white.
The Nazis silenced Käthe Kollwitz when they came to power. In 1933 she was forced to resign her place on the faculty of the Prussian Academy of Arts (she was its first female member). Soon thereafter she was forbidden to exhibit her art. Many of her works were destroyed in a Berlin air raid in 1943. Later that year, Kollwitz was evacuated to Dresden, where she died at age 78. Today she is regarded as one of the most influential German expressionists of the twentieth century.
Yulahu has issued a challenge that is based on some photographs she has taken in the Römerplatz, one of which photographs, is shown above. She said: “Copy one of my photos to your blog, and write a story...than let me know about it.” Here is my entry:
SIBERIA
Siberia is frigidly cold in winter. Come to think of it, Siberia is cold in summer too. The warmth in our hearts has to make up for the lack of heat of our pallid sun. That, and a drop of vodka now and then – more then than now. It was always hard to scratch out a living from the gelid earth, but now it had become even more difficult – perestroika, glasnost and the mafia, too…
To put bread on the family table is my responsibility and my wife’s eyes, they too had taken some of the ice from the frozen earth outside as my efforts to feed us were becoming more ineffectual. The silence of my children and their empty bellies a wordless accusation more effective than loud shouts and cries.
The decision to leave our homeland was difficult. But the colourful images on the foreign magazines were so enticing, the flickering blue light of the TV screen a mesmerising temptation, the promise of a better life so tangible, so easily attainable, it all seemed so easy! A voyage of thousands of kilometres, countless dangers, endless sacrifices. The warmth of our hearts saved us from the coldness of the wintry enmity of the people along the way.
We had to survive and all we had was each other. How else could we have managed to end up here? Here where the streets were meant to be paved with gold. Here where laughter was to be heard in every street corner. Where life was bright and warm and colourful like the images in the magazines… The life of an illegal immigrant is not an easy one. If one has a family, then it becomes even harder. Hard like Siberian earth, no matter where one is, even if one is in laughter-filled Römerplatz.
No jobs, life is not a colour magazine, even here. People may smile sunnily, but their hearts are cold. The autumn sun still so pleasantly warm, in Römerplatz, but to eke out a living here is as hard as in Siberia. To put bread on the family table is my responsibility and the only way to do it is to make the laughter louder, to make the mirth more widespread, to entertain, amuse, divert these carefree people. I apply my make-up and freeze on my dais on Römerplatz. The children dance and sing sad Russian songs, my wife plays the balalaika. The dogs do their tricks – how people laugh! I smile and bow deeply each time a coin hits the cold metal of the box in front of me. Ridi pagliaccio!
Our hearts are still warm as a cold night falls and the thousand coloured lights of the Römerplatz illuminate it like a fairy tale that my babushka used to tell me. Bread will be put on our table once again tonight. Our feet drag on the cobblestones and still, all that we have is each other. It is enough.
India has been described as the “Land of Festivals” and this is certainly true as with its rich cultural traditions, its colourful pantheon and the numerous holy days and feasts to be celebrated, it is rare that a festival is not taking place in one or more places throughout the subcontinent each and every day of the year. Hinduism is one of the world’s most ancient religions and its 800 million adherents are most devout and involved in preserving their rich heritage over the centuries.
Diwali is the Hindu “festival of lights” and is the best known of Hindu festivals and certainly the most joyous and brightest. As autumn brings dark skies and shortening days, hundreds of lights illuminate homes throughout India, with families celebrating throughout the country and in foreign lands where Hindus have migrated with visits, gifts, and feasts. Diwali lasts for five days, beginning on the 14th day of the dark half of the Hindu calendar month of Asvina. (every Hindu month is divided into a light half, when the moon waxes, and a dark half, when it wanes.) By Gregorian calendar reckoning, Diwali falls in October or November - in 2007, it began on November 9.
In Sanskrit deepavali means “row of lights” and Diwali, the name of the festival is derived from this etymology. Traditionally, Diwali celebrates the joyous homecoming of Lord Rama (hero of the epic poem the Ramayana), after 14 years in exile. When Lord Rama and his wife Sita returned to rule their country, their people lit the way with small oil lamps called “diye”. During Diwali, this type of lamp shine in rows along homes and temples, adorning windowsills, staircases, and parapets—or glow from little boats that float down rivers. Colourful candles are lit alongside diye, while fireworks light up the night sky.
Although the Rama tradition is widespread, in some parts of India, Diwali honours the marriage of the goddess Lakshmi and the god Vishnu; in others it commemorates the triumph of Lord Krishna over the demon Naraka. While for most Hindus the worship of Lakshmi is a focus of Diwali, Hindus in Bengal honour the fearsome goddess Kali. Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of wisdom, is also widely honoured, as are other gods and goddesses.
Homes are freshly cleaned and decorated with fresh flowers to welcome the days of Diwali. Many families draw a colourful “rangoli”, a decorative pattern made in rice flour, at the entrance of their home. Friends, family, and neighbours visit to share feasts and festivities as well as little treats such as “khil” (rice puffs) and “patashe” (sugar disks). “Puja”, worshipping of deities, takes place at home and at temples with prayers and other offerings.
Diwali also marks the beginning of a new financial year. Households and businesses begin new accounting in new ledgers, which are often decorated with images of Lakshmi. The goddess of fortune, she is the main deity honoured during Diwali. The celebrations probably have their roots in ancient harvest festivals.
Happy Diwali to all my Hindu friends here on 360! In honour of the festival, here is a beautiful song from the film “Devdas” starring the stunningly beautiful Aishwarya Rai. The song is “Silsila Yeh Chahat Ka” with music by Ismail Darbar and lyrics by Nusrat Badr.
When it’s my turn to cook and I’m not in the mood to faff around in the kitchen, I cheat. I use what is around in the fridge, the freezer, the pantry and throw things together as quickly as possible trying to make something that is easy, but also hopefully palatable not only edible. This quiche-of-sorts came about because I did not have the time, inclination or any flour in the cupboard to make quiche pastry. However, what I did have on hand was cream, eggs, cheese and various leftovers in the fridge!
QUICHE FOR CHEATS Ingredients • 1 cup grated cheese (emmenthal, cheddar, tasty, gouda, whatever) • 4 large eggs • 1 cup cream • 1 cup milk • Pinch of salt, freshly ground pepper, nutmeg • 1/2 teaspoon dry mustard • 1 cup cooked spinach, or sautéed mushrooms, or ham, or asparagus, whatever • Sliced bread, with crusts removed (feed them to the ducks or make croutons) • Unsalted butter, melted
Method Use a pastry brush to paint the melted butter on the bread, covering well both sides. Line a 25 cm pyrex quiche dish with the bread, covering it completely and allowing no gaps. This can be fun, like an edible jig-saw puzzle. Beat the whole eggs, add the salt and seasonings, the cream, milk, cheese and finally the vegetables or ham. Pour into the case and bake in a moderate oven for 30-40 minutes or until cooked and golden on top. Serve with a freshly cut green salad and some nice dry wine.
By the by, although quiche is now a classic French dish, it originated in Germany, in the medieval kingdom of Lothringen, under German rule, and which the French later renamed Lorraine. The word ‘quiche’ is from the German ‘Kuchen’, meaning cake. The original ‘quiche Lorraine’ was an open pie with a filling consisting of an egg and cream custard with smoked bacon. It was only later that cheese was added to the quiche Lorraine. Add onions and you have quiche Alsacienne.
The bottom crust was originally made from bread dough, but that has long since evolved into a short-crust or puff pastry crust. Quiche became popular in England sometime after the Second World War, and in the U.S. during the 1950's. Because of its primarily vegetarian ingredients, it was considered a somehow ‘unmanly’ dish, - “real men don’t eat quiche.” Today, one can find many varieties of quiche, from the original quiche Lorraine, to ones with broccoli, mushrooms, ham and/or seafood (primarily shellfish). Quiche can be served as an entrée, for lunch, breakfast or an evening snack.
We have a Federal election looming over our heads in the near future and the politicians have been busy drugging us with their sickeningly hypnotic oratory once again. Even our Prime Minister, who is noted for his arrogance and conceit has watered down his usually bombastic and self-centred pronouncements. He wishes to be elected again and break some sort of record as the most re-elected or longest serving PM, I think… Well, he has quite a record to break with Robert Menzies chalking up 2 years, 4 months, 4 days in his first term (26 April 1939 - 29 August 1941) and 16 years, 1 month, 8 days in his second term (19 December 1949 - 26 January 1966). Mr Howard has been in office for 11 years so far, and I think that most Australian believe that this is quite enough…
The most recent mortgage interest rate rises (the latest of several over the past few years) have caused Mr Howard to “apologise” to the Australian people, the face exhibiting distress and the crocodilian tears flowing as he was saying “sorry” – what a surprise! This is the same man who promised in his 2004 election campaign (rather foolishly, as he does not control the Reserve Bank, which is the authority that raises or lowers interest rates) that interest rates would not rise during his government’s latest term. This is the same man who said last time the rates rose that it was something that had to happen and was not apologetic about it (it wasn’t election time then and also, Mr Howard is not a man who is known for his apologies, as our aboriginal population will confirm).
As a result, many Australian families who are struggling to keep up with their house mortgage payments will experience increasing hardship. The rates rose on March 2nd 2006 to 5.50%, then to 5.75% on May 3rd 2006, to 6.00% on August 2nd, 2006 and again on November 8th 2006 to 6.25%. Another rate rise on August 8th 2007 took the rate to 6.50% and the latest interest rate rise has now taken the mortgage rate to 6.75%. More rate rises are tipped for the near future, sometime between February and March next year.
Meanwhile, the opposition is making much noise about the interest rate rises and is getting as much political ammunition out of it as possible, but the fact is that the bulk of struggling families will have to put up with increasing house repayments and deterioration of their quality of living. I am sick of the mud-slinging and vituperative attacks on both sides. I am thoroughly disgusted by the false smiles in their public appearances and yes they still go to shopping centres and kiss the babies! I would have thought that sort of thing was banned nowadays. To think that we shall be subjected to the bickering until November 24th is worrying, to say the least.
And yet, I always go and vote, I try to select candidates that will represent me and my values rather than vote for political parties, often realising that my vote is “wasted” by not voting the “party ticket”. However, I am more comfortable with that than voting blindly for representatives that my conscience will not support. As John Lennon said: “You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.” The Greens often have reasonable and forward-looking candidates, so my support has gone to these underdogs often in the past, but I have also voted for independents, whose activities and ideas I sympathise with.
What I will not vote for is a candidate that supports wars in foreign lands so as to strengthen our and our allies’ economies. My vote will not go to candidates that attempt to scare people into voting for them by waving the red rag of “terrorism” and “homeland security” in front of us. I will not support someone who is narrow minded, parochial and aggressively nationalistic. Mr Downer’s (our foreign minister’s) outburst a couple of days ago is an amazing sample of our present government’s ideas about Australia, its multicultural population and its relationship with the world:
“Foreign Minister Alexander Downer has accused Labor leader Kevin Rudd of being a show-off who can't hold himself back from breaking into Chinese. Mr Rudd, a former diplomat who speaks fluent Mandarin, used his language skills during an interview on a Chinese TV station yesterday. Mr Downer said there was no need for the Labor leader to do the interview in Mandarin. ‘He likes to show off, and you get that a bit with certain people in life,’ the minister told ABC Radio today. ‘I'm familiar with those types of people who like to show-off but I don't think, realistically, there are a lot of votes in the People's Republic of China for Kevin Rudd to win.’ Mr Downer says Mr Rudd is not the only person in Australia who can speak another language. ‘There are thousands upon thousands of Australians, there are tens of thousands of Australians, who can speak foreign languages and most of them don't bother to show-off about it,’ he said.”
Is this an Australian minister of the 21st century speaking or is it someone of the xenophobic 50s? I find it appalling! I would rather have a multilingual, cultured, educated and urbane man representing my country as prime minister, rather than a nationalistic, blinkered, jingoist who will support outmoded and backward looking strategies and whose foreign policy is that of lap-dog to its master.
My word of the day is a dirty word, it’s a four-letter word of eight letters:
politics |ˈpäləˌtiks| plural noun [usu. treated as sing. ] The activities associated with the governance of a country or other area, esp. the debate or conflict among individuals or parties having or hoping to achieve power: The Communist Party was a major force in French politics | Thereafter he dropped out of active politics. • The activities of governments concerning the political relations between countries: In the conduct of global politics, economic status must be backed by military capacity. • The academic study of government and the state: [as adj. ] A politics lecturer. • Activities within an organization that are aimed at improving someone's status or position and are typically considered to be devious or divisive: Yet another discussion of office politics and personalities. • A particular set of political beliefs or principles: People do not buy this newspaper purely for its politics. • (Often the politics of) the assumptions or principles relating to or inherent in a sphere, theory, or thing, esp. when concerned with power and status in a society: The politics of gender. ORIGIN late Middle English : from Old French politique ‘political,’ via Latin from Greek politikos, from politēs ‘citizen,’ from polis ‘city.’
I’ll get off my soap box now and remember, don’t believe everything you’re told, mostly it’s untrue (especially if it comes from the mouth of a politician)!
It’s poetry Wednesday, hosted by Sans Souci! Here is a poem I wrote a few months ago, and of which I was reminded after observing a scene on the way to work this morning. Labrys*
Slice through the torpid flesh With blade sharp shining; Unwind the thread that leads deep underskin. Explore interior cellular winding passages Until you find the beast within residing.
You need to sharply think, be sly, So as to slay the monster in the labyrinth; The labrys raised and ready poised, The brutish head to cut without delay, no pity.
Once beast is killed, once body is freed, The maze’s secrets will be yours. Clarity, wisdom, perception, care, As soul lies bared and reason rules the day.
But then the bloodied double-axe will seem Not so much a heroic implement of deliverance, As an assassin’s vile weapon stained by the blood of passion - And passion’s execution is a wasted crime. Rust stains on the stainless steel of conscience will appear.
*A labrys is a double axe that was used in Minoan rituals. The labyrinth is literally "the house of the double axe".
Today is Melbourne Cup Day here in my home city. At 3.00 pm, on the first Tuesday in November, Australians everywhere stop for one of the world's most famous horse races - the Melbourne Cup. If you cannot be in Flemington Racecourse to watch the Cup live, you can listen to the race call on radio, or watch the race on TV. Even those who don't usually bet, try their luck with a small bet or entry into a “sweep” (a lottery in which each ticket-holder is matched with a randomly drawn horse).
Since 1877, Melbourne Cup Day has been a public holiday for Melbourne, and crowds have flocked to Flemington. By 11.00 am the grandstand is packed to its 7,000 capacity, and by 3.00 pm, many tens of thousands of people usually gather around the racecourse. The party atmosphere often means that champagne and canapés, huge hats and racetrack fashions overshadow the business of horse racing. American writer Mark Twain said of a visit to the Melbourne Cup in 1895: “Nowhere in the world have I encountered a festival of people that has such a magnificent appeal to the whole nation. The Cup astonishes me.”
The first Melbourne Cup was run in 1861 at Flemington Racecourse and was won by Archer, a horse from Nowra, New South Wales, beating the local favourite, Mormon. The prize was a gold watch and £170. Dismissed by the bookies, Archer took a lot of money away from Melbourne, refuelling interstate rivalry and adding to the excitement of the Cup. Australia's most famous racehorse, Phar Lap, combined great stamina and speed. He was foaled in New Zealand in 1926 by Night Raid out of Entreaty and he grew to 17 hands. Over his career he won more than £65,000 in prize money and won 37 of his 51 starts. From September 1929 he was the favourite in all but one of his races. Phar Lap became the darling of Australian race crowds during the Great Depression of the 1930s - winning all four days of the 1930 Flemington Spring Carnival including the Melbourne Cup carrying 62.5 kg. Phar Lap is the only horse to have started favourite in three successive Melbourne Cups. He came third in 1929, won the race in 1930 and ran eighth in 1931.
The Melbourne Cup is one of the world's most challenging horse races and one of the richest (total prize money for 2005 - $AU5.1 million), and is the highlight of the Spring Racing Carnival. The race is run over 3,200 metres and is a handicapped race. This means that the better the horse is, the more weight it has to carry in the race. The distance and the handicap ensure that the Melbourne Cup is a horse race in which the occasional punter has as good a chance of picking the winner as those who follow the form. It is a day when all Australians are considered to have an equal chance on the turf as well as on the lawn. This year, the place getters of the Cup were: First: Efficient Second: Purple Moon Third: Mahler
I am not a gambler and I do not bet on the Cup, although I do enter the sweep at work. I don’t recall ever having won the sweep, and seeing I don’t follow the form the only thing that I enjoy in the Cup is watching the magnificent animals in peak condition race. Horses are beautiful creatures and when they gallop they are a poem in motion. Even though we did not go to the races, nor did we gamble, we had a lovely day at home with a delicious lunch, champagne and enjoyed the wonderful weather in the garden that was full of blooming roses. I hope you had a win if you bet on the Cup!
“Society exists for the benefit of its members, not the members for the benefit of society.” Herbert Spencer.
Today is Guy Fawkes Day in the UK and this commemorates the foiled attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament by a group of dissidents. The conspiracy intended to blow up the English Parliament and King James I in 1605, the day set for the king to open Parliament. The anniversary was named after Guy Fawkes, the most famous of the conspirators.
The assassination of the king and the overthrow of his government was to be the beginning of a great uprising of English Catholics, who were distressed by the increased severity of penal laws against the practice of their religion. The conspirators, who began plotting early in 1604, expanded their number to a point where secrecy was impossible. The conspirators included Robert Catesby, John Wright, and Thomas Winter, the originators, Christopher Wright, Robert Winter, Robert Keyes,Guy Fawkes (a soldier who had been serving in Flanders), Thomas Percy, John Grant, Sir Everard Digby, Francis Tresham, Ambrose Rookwood, and Thomas Bates.
Percy hired a cellar under the House of Lords, in which 36 barrels of gunpowder, overlaid with iron bars and firewood, were secretly stored. The conspiracy was brought to light through a mysterious letter received by Lord Monteagle, a brother-in-law of Tresham, on October 26, urging him not to attend Parliament on the opening day. The 1st earl of Salisbury and others, to whom the plot was made known, took steps leading to the discovery of the materials and the arrest of Fawkes as he entered the cellar. Other conspirators, overtaken in flight or seized afterward, were killed outright, imprisoned, or executed.
Among those executed was Henry Garnett, the superior of the English Jesuits, who had known of the conspiracy. The plot provoked increased hostility against all English Catholics and led to an increase in the harshness of laws against them. Guy Fawkes Day, November 5, is still celebrated in England with fireworks and bonfires, on which effigies of the conspirator are burned.
Please to remember The Fifth of November, Gunpowder treason and plot; I see no reason Why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot.
‘Twas God’s mercy to be sent To save our King and Parliament Three score barrels laid below, For old England’s overthrow With a lighted candle, with a lighted match Boom, boom to let him in. Anonymous Hertfordshire Rhyme
Quite aptly for today, I am considering a film that was inspired in part by this historical event, but which also looks towards the future and creates one of the most convincing filmic dystopias and asks several questions that relate to our present-day society. The film is James McTeigue’s “V for Vendetta” (2005) and its screenplay is an adaptation of Alan Moore/David Lloyd's graphic novel. Natalie Portman, Hugo Weaving, Stephen Rea, Stephen Fry and John Hurt have been wonderfully cast and do a sterling job in playing out this tale of the fight for freedom and justice against cruelty and corruption. There are elements of Orwell’s “1984”, Leroux’s “Phantom of the Opera” and superhero dramas such as “Batman” and “Spiderman” in this movie, but there is also an underlying serious political/social message in it.
Its plot takes place in the future, when Britain is under totalitarian rule and is rife with prejudice against minorities, unfair punishments and the cries of tortured dissidents in captivity. In the mist of this nightmarish background, one man known as “V” dares to stand up to the government and is labelled by it as a “terrorist”. One night V rescues a young woman called Evey Hammond and an unlikely bond between the two emerges which results with Evey becoming V’s friend and helper. V has a passion for justice, but he is also bitter and nurses his own personal hatred for the government as he was treated unjustly in the past. November the 5th is the day V and his followers will stand up to the government once and for all. The government is represented by Detective Finch who tries to track down V. Finch’s search leads him to discover much about V’s background, but also confronted by increasing evidence of tyranny and oppression, he begins to question whether or not he is on the right side.
Important questions arise upon viewing this film. Is V a hero or a terrorist? Are his actions justified or should the violence he espouses be condemned? “V for Vendetta” is a movie that looks scathingly at present-day politics. One cannot fail to see that President Bush is the model for Stutler. The news media and their coverage of V’s activities are inspired by on the propaganda machines at the disposal of today’s politicians, with V’s actions put on par with those of suicide bombers and underground train attacks. Does “terrorism” become “freedom-fighting”? A totalitarian oppressor in power who utilises torture, unjust rule, (a reign of terror, in fact) is not likely to arouse our sympathies, whereas V, who is presented as the “terrorist” is much more likely to appear to be the “hero”. This is a disturbing and chilling film because it presents the reality of today and yesterday as the “Status quo” that our children will inherit in the future.
If you haven’t seen this movie, I strongly recommend that you see it. It is dark, thought-provoking, and quite entertaining. I have not read the original graphic novel it is based on, and I realize that the film has created characters that are rather exaggerated, but the message is quite powerful and for me, well-conveyed in the film medium.
If you are taking part in Movie Monday, please leave a comment on my 360 blog!
I have been blogging daily on this platform for several years now. It is surprising that I have persisted as the world is changing and "microblogging" is now the norm. I blog to amuse myself, make comment on current affairs, externalise some of my creativity, keep notes on things that interest me, learn something new and to surprise myself with things that I discover about this wonderful, and sometimes crazy, world we live in.
I sometimes get the impression that I am on a soapbox delivering a monologue, so your comments are welcome.
