A “strange coincidence”, to use the phrase
By which such things are settled nowadays.
—Lord Byron. Don Juan. Canto vi. Stanza 78.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1136608/
Regular alien-human flick or something more? More. Backed by some good direction and fine acting by Sharlto Copley as ‘Wikus’, the movie makes for very good utilisation of the 2 hrs. The plotline must’ve leaked by now, but still: An alien ship that got stranded on earth, and its inhabitants restricted in District 9 with a beaurocratic MNU (multi-nations united) controlling them. Right from the first lines of the movie “..and the world was surprised that the alien ship chose to land not in New York or DC but on top of Johannesburg.” the movie promises to be different. There is of course, the usual amount of gore, humans being blown up and awesome-impossible armaments.. but that just adds to the enjoyment.
What I liked best about the movie was the humour with which it was directed. A lot of subtle sarcasm while describing the working of the so called MNU that attempts to make fair and legal all interactions with the aliens, the use of the racial term ‘prawns’, the human-rights cry for liberation of aliens, the scam involving illegal arms and weapon technology, and poor wikus trapped in a .. everything seems to be a pun on the current state of affairs. I would suggest not delving too deep into these hints, and enjoying the movie for what its intended. The film also had some good cinematography, with some very good scenes showing the city. Another reason I liked this movie is because I watched it with a total lack of expectations.. something this review and others may not allow you to do. Try nevertheless, and enjoy the sensitively yet lightly made District 9.
Here’s something I stumbled upon in my old book. Reading it makes me doubt whether I’ve progressed at all, if not regressed, as far as my short-story writing abilities are concerned.
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It’s 11 in the night, and the mist that’ll hang about in the morning tomorrow is still high up in the sky, blocking out the stars. The city lights reflecting off this low cloud cover has given the sky an orange tinge.. a stifled, stuffy feel. These are probably the last days of winter and after this begins a new cycle. Most things continue onto this new cycle, and every other cycle that will follow it but for some things, this winter is the last.
In this peaceful neighbourhood, where the promise of money hasn’t touched any street to arcades, where the houses are still homes that people live in and not leased out offices; in this neighbourhood one can still afford to take a stroll. The roads are rough but clean. The footpath maybe missing at points, but it still faithfully follows the road. And the tress.. silently standing guard to the metalled arteries. Whoever planned this neighbourhood didn’t plan very well, as is evident by the varied assortment of trees. So you have a flame of the forest competing with the purple jacaranda while the yellow powdered copper-pod stands somberly, looking queerly out of place. Bright, gay Tabebuias arch lazily across the community park and stare in indignation at the coconut trees that proudly stand tall. But these are the minor trees.. the ones that merely line the roads. They flower in spring, shed their leaves in fall and grow new ones, repeating this cycle over and over. There are however, sentinels that are evergreen. These huge and majestic trees cover every home here, stand at every corner and at every turn. Yet they cannot be noticed. It’s probably cause they’re so old and have been around for so many hundred years that people fail to see them. Oh, but they’re there. Let one be cut or uprooted and then the loss is felt. Ironic, that we need to lose something to realise its worth.
But on this winter’s night, all the trees are asleep. It’s neither autumn nor spring nor summer, and the trees are all waiting for the start of a new cycle. Behind the clouds the stars may twinkle, but there’s no way of knowing. Orion may have come up in the sky and the Ursa major spanning the horizon, but i shall never know. The deep blue darkness of the sky is missing too, but above the clouds i know it stretches unnervingly, with its sharpness and clarity. The wind is missing too. In the summer, it carries the leaves and the dust, making a fanfare of its motion. Never hot, the breeze flows in great volumes, never quite fast. Perhaps she rests in the afternoons, but its only a pause. Summer is one big movement of cool mountain wind down to the hot plains. The monsoon winds, on the other hand, aren’t quite as modest. They ride abreast the precipitation clouds, bending trees and causing water to be carried within. It gushes all day, seemingly indefatigable. By far, the winter wind is however, the quietest. It cannot be seen as it carries with it neither leaves nor dust; cannot be heard cause it doesn’t rush through the trees. It flows both in volume and speed and yet is imperceptible. You can feel the cold however, that flows into your lungs and spreads through it a chillness. The first breath of air that catches your throat is the day winter arrives.
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But today, it is leaving. The lands are paused, like the trees. That pregnant gap between the end of a season and the start of another. Perhaps tomorrow, the new cycle begins, perhaps the day after. But it will, and then once again the wheels shall move.
I return to the house that was my home for so long with its cold marble tiles, bare without the furniture the movers have taken away. Eerie and still, it too awaits a new cycle. But for me, my tryst with it has ended. The trees and the wind will eternally have their cycles, alas, but for life that doesn’t gift eternal youth.
Summer is a strange season. After 6 months of cold and almost nill outdoor activities, summer arrives and hands to you all the time in the world. The sun sets at 9, and each stretched hour of daylight seems intended only to be spent outdoors. The days start early, the birds making it earlier still. Many a late nights I’ve wondered what excites these feathered beasts to chirp so happily at the forsaken hour before dawn. Then one day I saw the dawn.. and the chirping made sense.
I haven’t been fortunate enough to have all my summer days to while away though, I do have to work. I’ve no regrets however and the occassional hours by the pond on a weekend make up for the hours spent indoors working. Even watching the wind and the clouds from through a window feels good. The trees are green, the wind is wholesome, the stream runs full and the clouds drift gently by. Afternoon smell of cookouts, picnics and maybe an ice cream or two. As evening approaches, frisbess fly wild and free, eventually followed by fireflies that slowly simmer from the ground into the long dusk that follows. The occasional thunderstorms quench such a yearning in your heart, by just listening to the thunder and watching the rain pelt down on the green surroundings around you. This is of course, an american summer. We don’t appreciate summer as much in India; a) cause its warm all year round and you can do what you please; b) summer’s hot and dry, and we’d rather wait for monsoons.
What joy, in being able to breath freely the air, to walk in meadows with cows for company and to watch the slow spectacle of the sun setting. This is only topped by being able to bike anywhere you please and being greeted by a verdant scene at every turn you take. What a wonderful season. Our days are packed with sunlight and a spirit of adventure.. be it while biking, trekking, boating or just being outdoors. And as it is with any gift in life that overwhelms you, summer brings to me a sense of loss. A sense that the days are passing by too quick, that the hours are melting away, and that the minute remains unfulfilled. A sense that I cannot hold time. But of course, nature never meant it for time to stay. Last I knew, she was a stickler for the cycle go on and on. Summer shall pass, the glorious evenings shall make way to the crisp dusk of autumn. A white, frosty winter and a cold spring shall make appearances before summer can come again. I know. But I still wish I could enjoy each minute of this glorious season a little more. Every unseized moment seems to me a terrible loss. But maybe that will change. Maybe, before the season’s end an ordinary evening stroll shall allow me to make peace with summer’s departure. Like Thoreau had said “..till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, so warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn.” Oops, summer 
.
I saw a blue bird, in my path
preening itself
in a make-shift bird bath;
as the summer sun flitted
through the new green leaves
on the now very alive green trees.
What right had it to use
the puddle that lay in my way
I dont know, but figured
t’was more of a right than i can say.
and gave the blue bird a wide berth,
the afternoon was his by right.
–
I saw a human sleep, within my window panes
as the sun rose today
and wondered what right had he,
to while away time, when nature
hadn’t meant it to be.
And so I sang my loudest tune
and watched him mutter and turn
and then i sang louder some more.
let him not be decieved
that morning sleep was his by right.
Continuing on with my writer’s block, under whose pretext I’m procrastinating, here is a poem written by a very ingenious poet. I would speak much more highly of Paul Dunbar if i knew him personally. I dont. I have read his poems and they are rather outstanding. So here’s one of them that struck me for what it says.
Life’s Tragedy
It may be misery not to sing at all,
And to go silent through the brimming day;
It may be misery never to be loved,
But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
To sing the perfect song,
And by a half-tone lost the key,
There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
The pale, sad staring of life’s tragedy.
To have come near to the perfect love,
Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
But that which lies aside its vanity,
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.
This, this indeed is to be accursed,
For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
We count our joys not by what we have,
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.
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Is it so? If there is a tragedy in life, is it that we did not have a perfect… thing? He doesn’t outright say that life’s tragedy is that we are not perfect. That would’ve been easy to refute. Rather, we missed what could be perfect. Damn depressing if you ask me. You could argue that being content/happy/other-similar-emotions is what counts.. and i guess that’s true too. Could-have-beens are too painful and perhaps useless to delve upon. (Like i believe what i just said 
). Still could-have-beens really could have been. Oh wait, thats why the poem is titled life’s tragedy. Luckily, I still have most of my imperfect life ahead of me, shall try and get that perfect thing one way or another. Wish you all something perfect too.
My favourite part of watching a movie with friends is getting to talk about it later. To discuss it, ridicule it.. see what smart comments others have to say for it and then profess your own impressions. Some movies are worth it. Unfortunately, I didnt get to do any of that after watching Revolutionary Road, and thus am forced into refuge here.
Its a good movie. As in, the actors acted as good actors do and the plot evolved as good plots do. Technically speaking, the direction seemed too… artsy. Staged and dramatic almost. (Frankly, on a friday evening I’d rather not watch another movie about middle class mediocrity and mundaneness). But there are some bits that stand out… some dialogues that make so much sense. The ‘crazy’ son of the Wheeler’s agent, who questions why everything must be like it is. April’s enthusiasm in doing something rash, in wanting to live and not just exist. Frank’s emotions on facing something larger than himself. Good themes the story portrays there.
If this was a book, and it probably is, i’d much rather read it. I think i prefer my cinema to be (without sounding cheeky) more visual in its ideas. Well, they do portray america in the 1950’s really well.. looks like i have no words for its criticism. Watch it and let me know if you have any.
Reading some essays of Henry David Thoreau, I cant help but marvel at what a genius this man must’ve been. Genius not in the academic sense, but in the ‘life and the meaning of it all’ sense. His most famous work is Walden, a pond somewhere in New England where he decided to live by himself, farming, building, reading, walking and having only the woods for company. Company enough if you ask me. The writing is a lil archaic, way too many sentences merged in one, but its what he says thats more striking. The book has many other essays, on winter, on wild animals, on economy, on solitude, on reading, on fire and on everything he learnt/observed during his 2 year stint close to nature. The book takes time to go through, partly because of the language and partly the structure of the novel. But its worth it.
Below is an excerpt from an essay titled “Walking“. (I’ve been saying the same thing all along ppl 
!). Nicely written piece, nothing much that I can add to it. Right from the begining where he says “I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering;”. He talks of why we walk, why the general impulse is towards trees/the likes, and what it does to your character. He concludes with these lines, a lil more dramatic than the other stuff in the book, but nicely said nevertheless.
“ We had a remarkable sunset one day last November. I was walking in a meadow, the source of a small brook, when the sun at last, just before setting, after a cold grey day, reached a clear stratum in the horizon, and the softest brightest morning sun- light fell on the dry grass and on the stems of the trees in the opposite horizon, and on the leaves of the shrub-oaks on the hill-side, while our shadows stretched long over the meadow eastward, as if we were the only motes in its beams. It was such a light as we could not have imagined a moment before, and the air also was so warm and serene that nothing was wanting to make a paradise of that meadow. When we reflected that this was not a solitary phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen forever and ever an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the latest child that walked there, it was more glorious still.
The sun sets on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with all the glory and splendor that it lavishes on cities, and perchance, as it has never set before,—where there is but a solitary marsh hawk to have his wings gilded by it, or only a musquash looks out from his cabin, and there is some little black-veined brook in the midst of the marsh, just beginning to meander, winding slowly round a decaying stump. We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright—I thought I had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west side of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman, driving us home at evening.
So we saunter toward the Holy Land; till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, so warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn.”
