things to do when i grow up: 2

make a short film. so preeety this is.


Fifty People, One Question: Brooklyn from Crush + Lovely on Vimeo.

i'm guessing those closets are sold on the 7 1/2th floor :)

also, why do people use vimeo? it's soooo sllllowoowwww!

what i'm really thinking of when i have a tight deadline and am pretending to work hard

milz's podcast is gorgeous, but the idiot never puts up names. so i'm thinking there should be a tineye for music. which is better than this and it's various clones. like maybe use pandora's and last.fm's technology to analyze songs' rhythm, tempo, artist etc. and find the most similar so you find exact matches as well as similar music you'd like? search + social networking in one sweet package.

clickety clickety click click!

o how i love that sound.

this is how i'll dress and sit EVERYDAY after i buy my typewriter. tee hee.

a sleeper asks

with love

beautiful things - andain

Got up early, found something's missing
my only name.
No one else sees but I got stuck,
and soon forever came.
Stopped pushing on for just a second,
then nothing's changed.
Who am I this time, where's my name
I guess it crept away.

No one's calling for me at the door.
And unpredictable won't bother anymore.
And silently gets harder to ignore.
Look straight ahead, there's nothing left to see.
What's done is done, this life has got it's hold on me.
Just let it go, what now can never be.

I forgot that I might see,
So many beautful things.
I forgot that I might need,
to find out what life could bring.

Take this happy ending away, it's all the same.
God won't waste this simplicity on possibility.
Get me up, wake me up, dreams are filling
this trace of blame.
Frozen still I thought I could stop,
now who's gonna wait.

No one's calling for me at the door.
and unpredictable won't bother anymore.
and silently gets harder to ignore.
look straight ahead, there's nothing left to see.
what's done is done, this life has got it's hold on me.
just let it go, what now can never be.

so many beautiful things...
so many beautiful things...

Now what do I do
can I change my mind
did I think things through

It was once my life
it was my life at one time

so preety: "imagination strategy"

"We need an Imagination Strategy for the UK which goes beyond territorial battles ad the obsession with platforms before content, and starts with the individual citizen's need for entertainment, education, inspiration and vision, then looks at what's needed to generate the creative stuff that can give them this, and then at the industries, traditional, converging and newly emerging, that we need to support and amplify that work in a global and digital world."

Source: if:book blog, institute for the future of the book

"stanza" means "room" in italian

step into my shameless poem
whose walls have throbbed
to clench their fist
around your shape

forgive my musty poem
not aired since you last left
to trap your smell inside
like a small purple animal

this, my lonely poem
was it hard to find?
the signs were painted black
when the villagers began to disappear

leave it be, my dark poem
so many fires have burnt it down
it at last understands
only darkness never breaks its promise

like what i'll do when i grow up

the thing quarterly -- miranda july

take thing, write on thing, ship thing to subscribers. so sweet.

it's all happening!

omg three authors on authonomy just signed book deals with harper collin's! the future has begun folks.

also worth reading: business model for ebook only publishing house.

flash mish mash

praag is teaching me flash!

please to express awe and wonder at my first piece of art :P

a favorite from long ago finds its way back...

at a most inopportune time.

Introduction to Poetry--Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

clickety-click: update

authonomy is harper collin's attempt at doing what i was ranting about yesterday--allowing people to rate new authors by their books' first chapters. but this again falls prey to the writing-equals-books syndrome. it upsets me that when we consider a writer "good" we mean "good enough to write a book." writing is as much about blogs, scribbles in someone's journals, notes on restaurant napkins, graffiti in bathroom stalls. where do i go to put up pictures of witticisms scratched on tables, or how do i get some awesome blogger discovered (though i must admit i haven't seen many of these)?

the hunt is still on.

clickety-click

why isn't there an ffffound or cpluv for writing? how come it's easier for me to find fabulous new design work by independent artists around the world but not the work of unpublished new writers?

designers tend to scour the web for new work by unknowns. but as readers we tend to look down upon new writing, usually appearing in the form of personal blogs. i plead guilty too.

but the discovery of yesterday's up-walli poem gets me pissed off that i couldn't easily single-clickety click and share it, rate it, make it popular on some new writing forum, make it show up on rss readers.

does this exist? have i missed it? if not, do you want to make it with me?

o i couldn't resist... :)

how nice being up-punjabi cocktail today... and i happily recommend this to all!

inspired by you bring out the up-walli in me inspired by you bring out the mexican in me -- sandra cisneros!

You bring out the Punjabi kudi in me
The chicken tandoori char in me
The raani satin and green salwar in me
The dupatta, churis and bindiya in me

You bring out the Punjabi fire in me
The deafening sound of laughter in me
The aloo paratha and dahi raita in me
The tusi bahut naughty ho ji in me

You bring out the Punjabi coy in me
The usne mere hand ko touch kar ditta in me
The giggle and snort and cough in me
The yellow turban long haired pattha in me

You bring out the Punjabi roots in me
The chandigarh winter fog in me
The mattha, not chaas, language in me
The sarson da saag makki di roti in me

You bring out the Punjabi voice in me
The jee aunty-ji, pintoo kaisa hai in me
The only-punjabi-poet-I-know Shiv Kumar Batalvi in me
The singh is king pride in me

You bring out the Punjabi songs in me
Tussi jaa rahe ho...? swaal in me
Tussi na jaa... jvaab in me
The kheti baadi and kisaan in me
The chalo chalein bhag chale in me
Chalo chalein?
Haan ji
Haan ji

you bring out my name in me...

you bring out the up-walli in me -- brown girls don't sing the blues

only for fellow up-wallis :)

asking for directions - linda gregg

We could have been mistaken for a married couple
riding on the train from Manhattan to Chicago
that last time we were together. I remember
looking out the window and praising the beauty
of the ordinary: the in-between places, the world
with its back turned to us, the small neglected
stations of our history. I slept across your
chest and stomach without asking permission
because they were the last hours. There was
a smell to the sheepskin lining of your new
Chinese vest that I didn't recognize. I felt
it deliberately. I woke early and asked you
to come with me for coffee. You said, sleep more,
and I said we only had one hour and you came.
We didn't say much after that. In the station,
you took your things and handed me the vest,
then left as we had planned. So you would have
ten minutes to meet your family and leave.
I stood by the seat dazed by exhaustion
and the absoluteness of the end, so still I was
aware of myself breathing. I put on the vest
and my coat, got my bag and, turning, saw you
through the dirty window standing outside looking
up at me. We looked at each other without any
expression at all. Invisible, unnoticed, still.
That moment is what I will tell of as proof
that you loved me permanently. After that I was
a woman alone carrying her bag, asking a worker
which direction to walk to find a taxi.

fuck me

sometimes the mind is loved
and the body violated
in the same moment

how odd this dance

is the body wiser than the mind
does it know
does it know how this will end
does it feel it will be more damaged
how dare it feel it will be more damaged
the mind wills and even feels
never fearing
the body
shameful coward
recoils

so i recoiled
once, often
from you

i could never lean in and whisper
fuck me
in that way
barely share the small secrets
that make men lovers and make lovers a solace

i could not go to the toilet
with the door open
when we felt
grey haired
chopping vegetables
humming to each other’s breath

i could not
open my body
like a book
turn page upon page
and let you make notes in the margins
to remind you
of the story
and who you were in it

how odd this dance
alone in your bedroom
shoes kicked off
hastily stopping when the key turns in the door

he is here
and now, i am not

that ki like ki... happy happy birday pg!

adopt a word!

nubivagant, adj. moving through or among the clouds

save the words

97

if 97 girls found a common voice
what would it sound like?
hysterical giggles?
a babble of gossip?
incomprehensible girl talk?

if 97 orphan babies found a common voice
what would it sound like?
a piercing wail?
too-many cries of pain?
scared silence?

if 97 orphan baby girls looked for a common voice
would they find one?

(asha sadan, an orphanage in khetwadi, bombay, currently has 97 orphan babies in their care. all 97 are girls.)

girl effect