“When tired, everyone seeks refuge in something. For me painting is that form of refuge — a place to go and entertain myself and perhaps recreate reality in an aesthetic sense.”
Monthly Archives: March 2011
Tonight’s To-Do List
That’s right.
Yours truly is planning to watch Kiarostami’s latest film, “Certified Copy,” which has already received mixed reviews.
Is it going to be my cuppa? Not really sure.
Stay tuned for my very own review.
S
Silver Days
How can I have faith in you and your dreams
while reddish ink is leaking from the rival’s lips?
Where have you gone? To the world of opulence?
What drug can heal this dangerous liaison?
I’m free from your anchored heart, out of my own mind,
crazy in love for an unknown soul – year after year.
The passing days; even the time is unfaithful today.
We sever ties and I bid you farewell. Alas, forever.
S
Rest in Peace, Dame Liz
“When people say, ‘She’s got everything’, I’ve got one answer – I haven’t had tomorrow.”
— Elizabeth Taylor (Feb. 27, 1932 – March 23, 2011)
(Image by Andy Warhol)
One.Three.Nine.Zero
1390’s res·o·lu·tion = kill them with (more) kindness.
Happy Norouz lovers.
S
(Artwork by Francisca Pageo)
Forough Therapy
“Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette
in the narcotic repose between two love-makings
or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning.”
— Forough Farrokhzad
(From her poem: “Another Birth”)
Be Born
I dreamt of the newborn leaves
in an impeccable race with
the birds on strike and
the broken ladder
on cold concrete;
with the dusty air
filled with
nostalgia.
Counting down
in fast forward;
three,
skipping the two,
and
one
…
I deify the moment
in slow motion,
cherish the Spring,
and honour our beloved
Norouz.
S
…
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
French vs. American
“I pity the French Cinema because it has no money. I pity the American Cinema because it has no ideas.”
(Image: Godard’s “Made in U.S.A”)
Since 1875
The smell of the perfume is dancing
in the air; proudly, tenderly.
The wet sky washes the stormy brain,
enduring the sweet sorrows; bare and boundless.
Today, the world is at last hers.
She admires the raindrops.
Watching them hitting one by one,
melting down the dirty snow
just like the summer heat dissolving
a blueberry sorbet scoop in the antique land.
The steamy window is nothing less
than an old treasure map, guiding her to
the moment of truth; to nostalgia.
Breaking the steam, she writes down
her thoughts: “I shall move yet again.”
S