The Cabinet of Wonders

I am taking a writing class with Marie Rutkoski, the author of the book Cabinet of Wonders. I hadn't read the book when I started the class a few weeks ago. I dreaded having to read it. It wasn't required. But it would be nice to read something from the professor you're taking the class from - to see if you hate their work or not. It's a good gauge to see whether that person knows what they're doing.
I downloaded the book into my Kindle and then I began reading. I couldn't stop. The word that kept looping through my head over and over - delightful. DELIGHTFUL. I don't ever use that word to describe anything I've read. Ever. That is, I've never used it until now.

Here's the synopsis from the Macmillan website:
Petra Kronos has a simple, happy life. But it’s never been ordinary. She has a tin spider named Astrophil who likes to hide in her hair and give her advice. Her best friend can trap lightning in a glass sphere. And Petra’s father is able to move metal with his mind. He has been commissioned by the prince of Bohemia to build the world’s finest astronomical clock. Then Petra’s father returns home—blind. The prince has stolen his eyes, enchanted them, and now wears them. Petra doesn’t know why, but she does know this: She will go to Prague and steal her father’s eyes back. When she finds out that her father’s clock has the power to destroy the world, Petra realizes she may never make it home alive.

Read it. You won't regret it. I don't care if you're six or sixty. You'll love it. It's that kind of book.

Banksy's Couch Gag

Banksy

I have a new muse. His name is Banksy. I recently saw a documentary film he directed called EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP. It was required viewing for the class that I am the student-interning for. It's brilliant. The story line follows a French man named Thierry Guetta with an obsessive need to film anything and everything that crosses his path until he found the world of street art in the 90s. He meets the big names in the world of graffiti - Shepard Fairey, Space Invader (Guetta's cousin) and others. Then he encounters the mysterious Banksy, the biggest name in the scene, and his life as well as the art world's, changes forever.


I've already seen the film twice in a matter of three days. I recommend it to anyone. Of course, true artistes might find this film offensive. But that's besides the point. It's entertaining while being a documentary and it's as "real" as it gets.

Banksy is a phenomenon. He is known for being the prankster's prankster (he's pulled stunts like spray paint on the West Bank and enter museums to put his own art) so most people thought that this film is a hoax. But you can't fake some of the scenes. It's just life as it happens. He says as much in one of his interviews.

disbelief

I was in my Intro to Critical Theory course the other day. We were discussing Ricouer's essay Freud and Philosophy. The crux of the essay was something about comparison between the hermeneutics of doubt and the hermeneutics of faith, hermeneutics meaning interpretation. So Ricouer makes a point about how Freud, Nietzsche and Marx are in the school of hermeneutics of doubt (which is where academia is now since the '60s, btw). These thinkers believed that our "reality" is a sham and it is something to wake up from. For example, in Nietzsche's case, "reality" is in the our concept of Morality while in Marx's case, our "reality" is in the idea of the social class system while in Freud's case, the truth is to be taken from the Unconscious. To my shock, one of my classmates asks the professor if he's heard of Daniel Quinn, the guy who wrote ISHMAEL. The prof. said no then she proceeded to tell him that the guy was saying the same thing as these other thinkers, that in the book he was being instructed by a monkey. I couldn't take it anymore and raised my hand. I told her that I know the guy she's talking about and he's just an author, that he's not in the same category as Marx, Nietzsche and Freud. I was in total and utter disbelief. I liked ISHMAEL but, please, it's in another universe as these other guys. Yes, I'm being a snob but, really? This is a graduate English program not an undergrad hippie fest.

OMG, I just exhibited the hermeneutics of doubt!

Rejection

Form Letter. No. E-mail. Formed. Words read. We're sorry to inform you. Full stop. You did not qualify for the Fulbright.

Sigh.

Good thing I received this news in India, while I'm in a relaxed state. Otherwise, I think I'd be crying and bitching and be filled with self-loathing.

The Gypsy

Kamaraj the Gypsy

On my first visit to India two years ago, I failed to show up for a "party" me and my family were invited to. It was an invite by a man selling beads in a small stall the half the size of my bathroom back in Brooklyn. His village in Tamil Nadu, about six hours by car travel where we are now in Puttaparthi, was one of the recipients of SQ Foundation's charity work in the past several years. So when we mentioned that we knew Derek O'Neill, the founder of SQ Foundation, Kamaraj acted like he knew us thousands of years ago, hence the invite. At the time, I was hesitant because of fear. I was afraid that after having masala chai with him, we'd all end up in the bathroom or worse. Of course, I've regretted not going since. So when we returned to India a few days ago and saw him on our second day, he immediately reminded me that I didn't show up to the party and that this time around, we have to come and have tea with him. So I agreed and my family followed suit. It was easily one of the best times I've had in India.

He took us to a cafe we'd never been to before. If you had no idea that there was anything inside, you'd never even think to go through the narrow hall from the outside where all manner of souvenirs from Punjabi suits, saris to silver jewelry and Ganesh statues all vie for the eye's attention. So none of us thought of even looking on that side of the street when we'd pass by. The interior was painted a light sky blue and in one side of the cafe was open ground where actual banana trees twenty feet high grew. It would have been the most perfect spot only it seemed like everyone that was staying there who, by the way, seemed to all be Russian speakers, smoked cigarettes as if they were chimneys.

Kamaraj told us a little more about his life. He's married to his "big sister's daughter." We were surprised but kept the conversation going. I also thought, no wonder his brother-in-law looked exactly like him! He was shocked that the we didn't have our "caste" written in a piece of paper like everyone else in India. In fact, he seemed perplexed that there was no caste system outside of India (and possibly Nepal). I had no idea that his wife/niece, Kavita, has a hole in her heart. I asked him how come he never told Derek and he said he didn't want to tell him because everyone wants something from Derek. I was in disbelief. How humble and how well-meaning was this person that he didn't even ask for himself (well, his wife) something that was needed. I told him I would pass it on to SQ and, later on, having talked with my dad about it, we told him that we would help with the bill if the foundation couldn't. Kamaraj was elated.

India

Currently in India at the moment, in the town of Puttaparthi to be exact. It's
Sathya Sai Baba's town in Andhra Pradesh. The last time I was here was two years ago. The first thing I noticed on my return is that people I met back then, like Ngajeng the Nepali merchant, the Tibetan doctor in Chadrawathi Road and even Sai Baba himself is the ravage of age. Everyone's gotten older. Ngajeng has a paunch that he didn't have two years ago. He's married now. The Tibetan doctor who runs an apothecary and massage place has raven line wrinkling his eyes. Everyone has aged. The talk of age and death loom the air - Sai Baba's upcoming death, that is. He is the icon, the avatar, the very life of this place. Times have been rough for the town and its residents. They rely on the tourists and devotees that flock every year to Puttaparthi to get darshan from the holy man. But the world economic crisis has affected even the beggars here. Ngajeng said that the past year has been bad for business. It's only picked up since Baba's birthday in November.

Anyway, I'm currently nursing a pinched nerve in my neck. It was my bright idea to get a Tibetan massage while here. It only cost 800 rupees which is roughly equivalent to $20. The petite Indian girl, the doctor's neighbor in Karnataka where he and his wife are from, did a job too well. Her small hands penetrating my nerve. I can barely move my neck now. It's 2 am. I don't think I'll be able to sleep anytime soon. I'm going back to the doctor tomorrow and get acupuncture. Maybe it'll help.

So here I am, blogging...all the way from India