Yay!

One of my favourite columnists, Tim Harford, would be at St Andrews tomorrow. I really wish that I had gotten around to reading his new book, The Logic Of Life, so I could get more out of the talk (I presume that he’s on a book promo tour).

Oh well, it should still be pretty damn good. Can’t wait…

The Betrayal

It was their song.

Loser by Beck.

Long before he mustered up the courage to ask her out on a date, long before she even acknowledged his existence in class, he had always thought of the song in conjunction with her. On their second date, he had told her about the song. She laughed her exalted, child-like laugh, leaned over the table and kissed him. Their first kiss. His first ever kiss. She said that she found it almost painfully endearing and that she always had a thing for the wounded, loner types. That was nearly six years ago.

The song had stayed with them through their long, often tempestuous relationship. They listened to it together countless times, and despite her differing taste in music (she was partial to Rachmaninoff and Satie) she always seemed to light up when the song came on. They made love while it was playing in the back ground, it was always on their car stereo and even friends had come to associate the song with them. In short, the song embodied their love, their relationship.

Now, amid the maddening cacophony in their living room (they had a few friends over), Karma Police has just made way for Loser. He stops rolling his cigarette and looks at her direction, expectantly. She’s engaged in an animated conversation about the etymological origins of the word Soma in Huxley’s masterpiece with her friend. He wants her to look up, he wants them to lock eyes and consummate their love in just one glance. As they always have done when they had company. She, however, seems completely oblivious to the song and to his imploring eyes. Incensed, he turns the volume up. Where the man failed, the machine wins.

Startled, she turns around and asks, “What is this song?”.

A feeble, waning “What are you saying?” was all he could manage to say.

Why so serious?

They say that hard work never killed anyone. Guess they never had it this wrong before.

Heath Ledger wasn’t exactly the favorite actor of mine. Sure, he was magnificent in ‘Brokeback Mountain’ and I did have a teenage crush on Gabriel from ‘The Patriot’ but the favorite he was not. I have also never felt any ‘closer’ to a celebrity because the tabloids constantly update us on their lives and whereabouts. Their lives, just like the characters they play, have always been otherworldly and cinematic. After walking out of the cinema or closing the magazine, their memory lingers on for a while but eventually recedes to that part of your brain where useless information about strangers are stored.

What then struck me the most about his death? As always, we are deeply affected when things hit close to home. At this point we can only speculate that Ledger possibly overdosed on anti-anxiety/sleeping pills and that he undoubtedly suffered from exhaustion. I’m no stranger to such a scenario; come exam season many people often resort to sleeping pills and anti-anxiety pills to get them through. A very recent conversation I had with my friend sprung to mind when I heard about the actor’s demise.

A few days ago, post a very stressful exam, my friend and I were sitting in our Hall library trying to revise for the others. As is customary in century old Halls, the walls were flanked with portraits of members of old wardenry and I made a comment about how I would like to be in the place of an especially distinguished looking Warden. I only made the comment for I thought she exuded a certain sense of regality and haughtiness. To this my friend replied, “Yeah, dead!”. There was nothing funny about what she said and we both sat about for a minute or two imagining how amazing it would be to be dead. To be able to rest forever or to be able to go to bed stress-free and not have nightmares or just to be able to fall asleep. It was such a comforting thought. However, in about another minute’s time, we burst out laughing (much to the comfort of a poor fresher who was privy to our deeply disturbing conversation). In retrospect, it appears even more ludicrous and laughable to imagine that a bloody exam diet would cause such despair in us. But it did then. And we would’ve given anything in the world to feel happy and relaxed again. Luckily for us, this sorry state of affairs only lasted for two-three weeks or so. Now, I would imagine that Heath Ledger was under extreme duress for a much longer period of time. A film to him would have been just as important and life changing as certain exams are to us. I can’t even begin to imagine just how horrifying it would to undergo such stress for an extended period of time. I don’t think I could’ve lasted for long, just like him. Most of us are only human, after all.

I sincerely hope his last sleep was restful and dreamless. And that as he slipped away, all he ever felt was peace and tranquility. He deserves that, after a long day’s work.

He would be sorely missed by his family, friends and by many film-goers. I might even revise my opinion about him as an actor. Friends whose opinion I value, speak highly of ‘I’m Not There’ and the trailers of ‘The Dark Knight’ look very promising, very dark.

Tragically enough, he has emerged to be the darkest knight of them all.

Why utilitarians have a lot more fun than the rest.

Guy : Maximising our utility from this meeting would result in…

Girl : FOCs?

Guy : Let me get our coats!

[P.S. May I remind you that it's unethical to groan at jokes conceived during revision! ]

I am Vertical - Sylvia Plath

But I would rather be horizontal.

I am not a tree with my root in the soil

Sucking up minerals and motherly love

So that each March I may gleam into leaf,

Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed

Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,

Unknowing I must soon unpetal.

Compared with me, a tree is immortal

And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,

And I want the one’s longevity and the other’s daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,

The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.

I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.

Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping

I must most perfectly resemble them–

Thoughts gone dim.

It is more natural to me, lying down.

Then the sky and I are in open conversation,

And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:

Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

One of my favorite Sylvia Plath poems. This, like most of her poems, is very self-referential and brilliantly portrays the poet’s inner turmoil. And, this is a poem with a  theme that echoes in all of us. The longing to be someone else or somewhere else is an experience that almost everyone goes through at some point of time in their lives. There’s also the mad hope that once the desired state has been attained, your existence would be meaningful and justifiable again. Could it be something worth dying for? Perhaps, yes. Therein lies Plath’s greatness.

Mad about (Ptasie) Mleczko!

‘Intelligent googling’, a word undoubtedly very popular amongst most Econ Analysis students this year, would inform you that Ptasie Mleczko literally translates to ‘Bird’s Milk’! Before your mind wanders off to unorthodox scenarios involving lactating avians and such, this is a kind of Polish confectionery made out of very milky marshmallow covered in milk chocolate. I can’t entirely be certain if it can be classified as marshmallow for it distinctly lacks the gelatinous chewiness of the standard issue one. PM’s (Ptasie Mleczko) ‘marshmallow-y’ interior is fluffy, almost spongy and melts in your mouth, while the thin chocolate covering just plays the role of a dutiful tease before relenting. I have also discovered that these qualities of the ‘marshmallow’ have proven to be the driving force behind the very puzzling name (Do Poles associate fluffiness, sponginess and meltability with bird milk? Must remember to take this matter up with Kamila sometime). All such etymological worries aside, the damn thing is phenomenal! They’re like nothing I’ve tasted before and by far, beat any other polish import. Perhaps, the main attraction could be that it evokes memories of candy from childhood. Simple and delightful; without all the fuss about fairtrade or the percentage of cocoa content or the country of origin of the damn beans. An innocent product.

Now, onto the main reason for this post. Kamila got me a box of PMs from Polska the other day (Monday, to be precise) and they’re disappearing at an alarming rate. Well, out of the initial 36, am left with 4 now! Resistance has been futile - they’re the first thing I reach for in the morning, I skip dessert at meals for them, I even dream about them in a Contract Theory class! Come to think of it, I’m even writing a post about them when I should really be preparing for my 9 am tutorial tomorrow. In short, am addicted. The waist-line protests, the seams burst and I couldn’t care less! It must be love.

[Not one of the posts am terribly proud of...the writing is just atrocious. But am gonna leave it on. Crime of passion and all that ]