You were no sanyasi.
You were thrown in to the sea.

The new venue is the Hansa Coffee store at Fife Road. When you approach from Thimbirigasyaya it is before Hotel Janaki, and right next to Asiri Salon. As usual we start at 2pm and go on till 6 in the evening, but do come early as we are punctual people. Paduru, coffee, annasi and kadalagotu will be the accompaniment to the poetry. Hansa sells their own specialty Sri Lankan brewed coffee and chocolate drinks that will also be sold during the event. You could also buy their product in up to 1KG bags if you like it enough!

This will be our only event till March, so please do attend if you are into this sort of thing. There will be a few resident artists as well just to keep things interesting. So bring your pencils if you have got a creative itch. I am looking forward to this month’s poetry jam. Hope to see you there!

Past events can be heard here in the form of our poetry.pilau podcast: poetrypilau.podomatic.com 

After defrosting in the microwave I fed the cat some before getting to the marinade. My brother taught me how to make a simple teriyaki marinade with brown sugar. I chopped up some red chili from the garden and added it to the teriyaki. The beef was cut into lean chunks, so I applied some salt, black pepper and put it on the pan. I use the fat free express since nothing ever sticks on to it. Peace of mind, like srsly. Just a bit of oil on the pan since I wanted it to sear just by heat. Chopped up some onions, garlic and capsicum and threw them in. By this time the teriyaki was ready, so I dipped each chunk in the hot sauce until they were glazed. After this I transferred everything onto the non-stick to let it cook with a splash of soy sauce and water to cook the meat.

I did not use the Prestige pressure cooker ’cause it kind of freaks me out. But my mom swears by it, and so does dad. When cooking beef it is all about preference. I do not mind medium-rare, but this time it went towards medium. I turned up the heat in the oven just in case, so I could cook the meat evenly as the pieces were chunky. At 240 degrees celcius I let it grill for a good fifteen minutes before taking it out and into a bowl.

Meanwhile, the rice was cooking with just a dash of Ajinomoto and some curry powder. I snuck in some biriyani mix, I use the Shan brand which has an interesting tang to it. Also added some of the Classic Indian Biriyani paste to balance out the flavours. The rice was done by the time the meat came out of the oven.

As one last addition, and a flight of fancy, I cracked open an egg and poured the white over the rice, frying it up so it was not too moist. I used the raw egg yolk to coat the beef by letting it sit on top. You have to place it carefully so it does not break. Presentation counts! Even if you are cooking for your self. I’m trying to eat as much with my eyes and nose as I do with my mouth.

So yeah, that’s it! Simple as that, you’ve got a pretty satisfying meal! The Japanese and Indian elements seem to work well with each other, though I added a splash of blackcurrant to the beef – I don’t know what influence that is. Now, stop reading about it and GET BACK TO THE KITCHEN AND MAKE ME A TERIYAKI BEEF BIRIYANI, BITCH!

The boy watched, knowing what was upon him. He closed his eyes, and waited for what was imminent. Yet there was nothing, save for a quiet stillness, unperturbed by movement. In the black, cold aloneness that is known as nothingness, he lay. No feet, head, nor any vital organ – simply being. “Is this death?” Moments passed, as though hours transfigured into lifetimes, and yet nothing.

He opened his eyes, it was raining.

As though the wave had clung onto the edge of the atmosphere, like an ocean in the sky, waters that had flowed across the Earth fell over his being. In that moment he awoke, now lying on a mattress. He rose, opening the balcony door. Looking to the horizon he felt a wave surge from within, as a blue moon graced the skyline. Atman had awoken, whispering softly into his ears.

The boy took to his instrument, trying to make sense of the sound. Two notes, and harmonies followed, the tune of an ancient swept through his fingers. It was the song of the self, Atma Shatakam. “Aum Namah Shivaya”, a chant rolled off his tongue, as the music came to life, becoming on its own. An ocean in the sky, transpired into the light of his eye that now looks upon you.

Awake.

Since then the band have gone on to play shows in Berlin, one of which I told a friend in Germany to check out. She enjoyed the show, and got to meet the band. They were thrilled to hear a Sri Lankan was spreading the word, so they sent me an autographed copy of their new release “Revelation & Mystery”.

I’m listening to it again right now. And man, these guys have grown! Monolithic riffs mount on top of each other, as the bass staggers through the drumwork. They’ve moved from their initial sludge sound to one that’s more refined, taking cues from stoner rock and heavy metal. There’s less Eastern experimentation on this release, with a sitar and mOOg heard faintly in the background. But there is still that spacey sound, like some neo-Hawkwind meets Sleep.

]]> http://saintfallen.wordpress.com/2012/01/10/a-samsara-blues-experiment/feed/ 0 By The Length Of My Hair St. Fallen http://saintfallen.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/new-years-resolution/ http://saintfallen.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/new-years-resolution/#comments Mon, 02 Jan 2012 04:58:06 +0000 St. Fallen http://saintfallen.wordpress.com/?p=3277 Read more]]>

Now that you’ve digested my face, let’s talk about the food. Last week I had two old friends for lunch, they were delicious. I mean the food, obviously. Lunch was quite spontaneous. There were no noodles at home so I had to actually touch the rice, which I’ve avoided for a good month! Looked in the fridge and found a bell pepper, some tomato, and decided to make do with what was around.

A few chicken wings marinaded with salt, pepper, and chilli powder. I then threw some curry powder and paprika onto the pan, let it roast and then added some butter and curry leaves. Once the aroma got intense I added the chicken, just searing it so that the skin would take in the curry. This process should not take long, you do not want the chicken to cook completely, just a light seer so it kind of looks like tandoori. That orange-brownish colour is what you should be going for.

Once this was done I took the chicken off the fire and got my friends to chop up the veggies. We went with carrot and bell peppers, cut by length, and some fresh hot chili peppers from the garden. The tomatoes were left as they were, since we were tossing all of this into the oven. Once it was all chopped I made a little dressing with white wine vinegar, chili vinegar sauce, and a splash of oil. I added some biriyani mix into the leftover dressing and tossed the chicken into that before putting all of it into the oven for 15 minutes at 240 degrees celcius.

Meanwhile, the rice was in the cooker, with just a spoonful of butter to keep it from sticking. I scraped half a coconut, and chopped up fresh chilies from the garden, a whole onion and a whole garlic, which went into the mortar. Mashed all of this up along with lemongrass, cumin and cardamon. I added just a drop of lime to get some tang in there. Once the rice was done I put some oil onto the pan and lightly fried it, then introducing the lemongrass pol sambol to get the flavours going. If you are struck by waves of aromas, then you are doing it right.

All of this should be done around the same time, you can easily have this ready in 20 minutes. I prefer paprika for spice as it is not too much of that chili spice, it just adds heat. Also, use as much black pepper as you want, I have a tendency to overdo it. The fresher the ingredients, the fresher this is going to taste. I left the tomatoes whole, to be used as a kind of pallete cleanser, should the flavours be too much to take at one go. The lemongrass sambol I will now take rights to, though it was a very impromptu discovery! Try it out and let me know what your tastebuds think (:

Watching the lines move across the monitor with baited breath, as his lungs were giving way to the ether – the breath of the soul that is breathed with every man’s last – his sons and daughter gathered around the hospital bed. Nasser was returning from Colombo. They held his hands, pinching his skin, hoping for a response. His granddaughter rubbed his feet. ”Appa!”, they called out to him, only to echo within the room.

The doctor had told them it could go either way. “He could be gone soon, or recover overnight”. They had considered acquiring an oxygen concentrator to fuel his now redundant lungs. The family outside was under the impression that a recovery could be expected. But as November drew to a close, the colours began to run off the patient’s face.

Naoshaad, his only son-in-law, watched unsure if it were time to bring his hands together. His oldest son, Farooki, had the same thoughts run through his head. At this point there were no signs of consciousness, only a body holding on to existence. Nasser was on his way back to the hospital when suddenly his father drew a deep breath, the redness returning to his cherub face. A breath of relief, as heavy hearts sighed for the return of his vitals.

At 6.45, Nasser had returned. All four brothers and their one sister assembled around their father, about to be orphaned by fate and old age. His vitals began to drop again, as the mood sank into a deep melancholy. Mostly so for Malik whose face could hide no emotion. In that way he was like his mother, in perpetual consternation.

At 9.14, he breathed. A soul known to tens of thousands, across generations, breathed its cosmic breath. As the oxygen left his body, the ether entered the soul. No one heard the sound that would become his existence. A ringing, as though a horn were blown to awaken his spirit. A spirit hardened by discipline and over three decades of social service. A selfish spirit that engaged in selfless service to his people, and not his family.

To the thousands that heard the rumours, his passing had already taken place. Within hours, every bus and train coming into the eastern province were filled with relatives and well-wishers. The last day of November was declared a day of mourning. Every shop, bank and business were closed, as an entire village came to a halt in order to begin their pilgrimage to pay respect.

“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!”, the subahu azhan rang through the streets of Sammanthurai. It was then announced that Mohammed Ali Ahamed Abdul Majeed, former Minister and Member of Parliament for thirty four years, had merged into the ether. His body was taken to the Abdul Majeed Town Hall soon after, as the thousands would make their way to see the face of their forefather. For hours on end the crowd would not for a moment thin out.

At Asar there was a congregation of nearly three thousand men at the tsunami burial ground, preparing to pray and ask dua for the sanctity of his soul. Thousands prostrated upon the ground where thousands more had been buried. The thaay and thahapan of Sammanthurai chose to rest with the lost children of his abode.

Farooki, Malik, Nasser, Lafir and even Naoshaad stood with all the closest of kin to receive salaams from everyone present. Their hands tired as their lips moved in synchronous movement with those who mourned. Women watched in the distance, often raising their own hands to wipe the stray tears that would become on their own.

It ends.

On returning to Colombo, I was asked to attend a dinner at uncle Nasser’s. They spoke of my grandfather, reliving those last moments where the weight of eighty five years were held in the balance. Someone made mention of a Malayali saastra he had consulted twenty odd years ago. They spoke of a little book in which his fate was written. I inquired as to where I would find it, to be told it may still be in my grandfather’s cupboard drawers. Impatient, I pulled out every drawer, flipping through photo albums, playing cards, socks and sarongs, in search of the ola leaf.

In the moment at which my fingers made prints on the stained leaves of the ola, it occured to me that I could not read the script in which it had been written. There before me were the alien scribbles of an extra-sensory perception. Eyes closed I guided my fingers over the pages, as though it were some psychic braille. I breathed, tasting the ether, as the breath of an ancient washed over my lips.

It ends.

You are the artiste, I – the magician.
You play with colour and shape,
as you trace the lines along my face.

Yet I may choose to disappear,
bend the rules that keep my here.
I tread the wire that suspends belief.

You find me here, yet lose yourself,
as colours give way to shapes that
melt lines between the two of us

Held together we form a cross, a
crucifix to keep me here,
until I’m bled I shan’t disappear.

O magician that tread the water clear,
now bleeds the red of wine -
transfigured

The artiste pains to see you here, yet
shapes the cross the grips the hearth,

Now crimson hued the Earth gives way
to the corpse that bled its wine in vain.

Eventually I was back in Colombo, out of school and with no intention of getting back into that cycle of meaninglessness. I spent my savings on liberating myself, if only for a short time, from the confines of family. Before I go on I have to make mention that I have not been constrained so much by my family, in fact I have had more liberties than I can count on my fingers. Even still, that personal sense of freedom that is within you can feel even the slightest constraint. So I left, for a while, and traveled around the country. With some friends I made some cross-country trips, covering most of the island just up until the birthday this year. And all the while the hairs on my head grew unhindered, not a single strand meeting a scissor.

By that time though, I was exhausted. I needed a break from the break I had taken. Yet it took me a little while to realize this. The Jaffna Music Festival came up and I decided to take a bus by myself and leave even my friends behind. I spent three days in Jaffna, meeting the blogger crowd there on the second night and joining them on their last day before heading back to Colombo. It was just what I needed, to be exposed to the kind of people who do not need substances to fill their day. We hitchhiked back from Casuarina Beach and I felt my hair being whipped back by the wind, like a dog with its head out of the window, I squinted my eyes to keep the sand away, yet I couldn’t keep from smiling.

After that though, I spent a lot of time doing nothing. I was at home, eating, sleeping, and just generally existing. I had returned to my parents and my mother was taking care of me. Obviously, they were worried. I wasn’t doing anything, and I showed no interest in taking up anything. They took me to our hometown where every person who saw me had to comment on the length of my hair. At that point it was actually quite fascinating to watch the curls that would come out of nowhere, the awkward stage. Yet this was lost on them, I suppose a cultural stigma which I find quite strange for descendants of Arabs. It is funny how short our memory can be, we forget where we come from and insult our ancestors by shunning their behavior.

For some reason I could not eat meat anymore. I had quit smoking and had been sober for months. It was refreshing, though the first three weeks were hell. Yet all this while the substance in my hair was the same. I guess you could say it was tripped out. I was vegetarian for a while. Eating every thing with dhal. I gained ten kilos up until I touched chicken again, then it all disappeared just as quick as it came. I had the “chokka” or chubbiness that my father’s family is known for. He smiled gleefully as he pinched my cheeks. Now I’m back to being the scrawny little stick I have always been.

In August I decided to reemerge and go out and meet people. I learnt of friends who had been through phases tougher than mine. I regretted not keeping in touch, yet we all have our own issues to get through. My absence had allowed me to thin out the herd and associate with only those I felt closest to. I hadn’t written anything in ages though, as is evident if you flip through this blog. It took time before the writer’s block ceased. What came first though were the drawings, I suppose the residue of everything that had gone through my mind over the year.

I eventually joined the newspaper near my house when I felt comfortable with society again. I hit a few nerves with my first article, yet I enjoy the work that I do and I take responsibility for it. I have never been one to please, I do what I do. My colleagues never questioned the length of my hair. The expected comments would be made every now and then, but it never bothered me. I make fun of people as much as they do of me, and I enjoy that. It is only when I am questioned and made to feel abnormal for my appearance that it irks me. Particularly when it is from those close to me, incidentally by kin.

I have longer hair than my mother now, and healthier hair than my sister. My father speaks of how he once grew his hair when he was young, and tells the people of our hometown that I am simply following his footsteps. My younger brother would grow his hair out too if his vocation allowed for it. Yet others in the family disapprove. Is it stigma all over again that permeates even the bond of blood? How limited is our perception that we cannot accept or attempt to understand the behavior of our kith and kin? Tolerance, and respect, are two very simple principles, yet when it comes to issues such as this, they are often overlooked.

I don’t care when a random passer-by shouts “ponnaya!”, or a bearded old man touches my hair and asks “idu enne idu?”. I simply grab at his beard and ask back “id enne idu?”. Some are dumbfounded by it, I just simply don’t get it. The human anatomy allows for hair growth on both male and female. If you really want to be able to tell a man from a woman, just look where you need to and get it over with, stop judging me by my hair.

I have come to identify myself with my physical being as I am now. And I will continue to identify with my being so long as it is my own spirit that influences my decisions and the actions I take. A scissor in any other hand, driven by any other motive would only corrupt this. And I will not have that. Yet I feel some day I will give in, if only to cease the nagging. Because at some point it just feels like you can not change another’s social conditioning. If they are convinced of something, it is difficult to change that conviction. And so perhaps I will be the bigger person and do as they ask, and I will consider it a selfless act.

It’s funny though, how some would call it selfish to behave in this way. But I suppose that is the irony of man. By the length of my hair, today I can say, I have yet to make a decision that I truly regret. And I hope I will not make one by cutting it off.

“Long hair is much more than just a thing of vanity for me. It is  tradition, identity, and even spirituality. When I feel my hair on my back, I am reminded of the years it has taken to grow, and how I too have grown.” John Two-Hawks, nativecircle.com

Krishantha did a rendition of his performance piece “Curfew Baby”, about the generation conceived during the time of curfews. I read some of my more recent writing, mostly from the blog. Ayeshasaurus from Capturing Cupid was there too, she read us a quick poem before having to run off. The Puppeteer sat eerily in a corner, making little noise. I’m not sure if she did read anything. Theena Kumaragurunathan read us a short story he had written only two weeks prior. It was raw, and a little lengthy but he had us drawn into the story of Shruthi and her relationship with music.

Though there were supposed to be musicians present, my absence sadly meant that bit of the jam didn’t happen. I had to be in Sammanthurai for my grandfather’s funeral, but I was present via Skype. There were technical difficulties, of course, with Skype hanging itself from time to time. Still, there’s something strange yet comforting about hearing familiar voices read their words to you when you’re mourning.

The next poetry jam is going to be on the 18th of December, which is a Sunday. Hopefully Colombo won’t be too happening (or hungover) to make it down to Green Path. We’ll start after lunch at about 2PM and go on thru the evening. You will probably see a post up on Indi‘s blog (since no one reads this one anyway).

So here’s an open invitation to the blogosphere: Bring Your Own Words, your voices, and make a sound, because there are ears that are open to your expression. Oh and do spread The Word! (:

photo-credit: flickr.com/ruvin

Forget Channel One MTV’s neverending attempts to dethrone Wickremasinghe  of late, and look back at our blogospheres very own Taprobane Uncut, Srilanka’s independent public interest investigative blogger’s open letter to the leader:

I know you’re from [the] school, where naughty kids are kindly told “Learn or Depart”, you seem to have forgotten this, but there are some thingsto keep in mind in case you decide to venture out in the world again.

1. Stop acting urban, get on the rural: Again, perhaps you didn’t hear about rural masses being from Colombo Seven and all – but it’s a totally rocking piece of united people you can actually bank on. Dump that Colombo elite feedback that even sounds remotely like a victory. And DON’T rely on that Facebook fanpage and that Pre Polls forecast! Those are are totally fake, fool!
2. Don’t “fall in love” with Minority politicians: Rauf and Mano will always be what they are- pathetic losers. So if you want to jerk off, let me refer you to www.lovethecock.com – Real gays, real fun!
3. Stop telling the media election was rigged: Really? That election was rigged is your standard defense everytime? What if you had won? Would that still have been rigged, loser?
4. Apologize to Mahinda and make friends with Basil: Make friends with them NOW and see how it’s done in style!
5. Blame it on Eric Solheim: Seriously, if nothing else works, that will.

- taprobaneuncut.blogspot.com

But to be fair, bringing up sexual preference is only sensationalizing what is a pretty matter of fact truth. He is there for a reason; a weak opponent is as good as a strong ally. Allegations of favouring partners and compromising others are related to his sexual preference only due to circumstance.  The circumstance being that the majority of politicians in Sri Lanka are men, and this is not limited to the political arena but most fields of work.

Theoretically, even a heterosexual man would engage in favouritism, in turn compromising others, if  there were more women in politics. This is not an uncommon occurence, just look at most “CEO’s ” at supposed higher education institutes. There is really no teeth to the allegation, just another futile attempt to get rid of a carcass seemingly cemented onto its throne.

Personally though, I would like to see a stronger opposition. And yes, new faces, please. But the issue being raised is not relating to homosexuality, and hopefully our fair leader of the opposition won’t be kicked out for his taste in men.

Drew this at the request of an aunt, was initially just the face and then the trunk. I tried to restrain myself but I was asked to go crazy with it. So I did (:

Unedited, only arranged. Taken with Natalie Soysa‘s Sony a230.

More organic here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/stfallen/sets/72157627949121722/show/

These were compiled over the last few days, not quite sure where the inspiration came from. Started reading up on Metatron’s cube after revisiting The Mars Volta’s The Bedlam In Goliath. I swear that album does things to you. Used just Paint.net, layers, polar inversions, twists and turns for these, and geometric shapes.

Got “Voltar” printed out on A3 paper at Anim8, giving it to mother for her birthday! (:

An attempt at visual poetry. Words from earlier this year. More visuals here:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/stfallen/sets/72157627930205068/show/