I don't even wanna know how many pages of Tamil shit I just printed 0.0
LTTE--The Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam--shit, to be more specific.
Postcolonialism and Literature feels like such a carry-over from Nationalism in the Middle East that it ain't even funny sometimes. I'm reading up on this Sinhalese-Tamil stuff and I keep feeling, Israel-Palestine, or sometimes, India-Pakistan, which I suppose would make more sense given the geographical location of the LTTE (Sri Lanka).
I'll tell you, this is the first time I've really closely acquainted myself with Buddhist extremism (on the part of the Sinhalese; the LTTE are Hindu).
And my Tigers, by the way, if we agree with the fifty-some countries that label them terrorists, are the smartest, scariest fucking terrorists in the world. They have their own naval fleet and they invented the suicide bombing as we know it today. A few months after their first suicide bombing in 1987, Hamas launched the first suicide bombing of the Palestinian First Intifada. To date the LTTE has deployed more suicide bomb attacks than Islamic Jihad, Hamas, and al-Qaeda combined. These are some formidable bastards, Comrades.
Well, enough of that, until I've got a better grip on this Postco project, at least. No worries, I'm quite sure this shan't be the last you hear of the Tigers; if I'm late in giving you more, just look at some news site: they've been all over the place since January.
Last night I went with Amber, Alex, and Johnna to the house party of one of Alex's co-workers. It started off kinda Eh but it got better. Although one of co-worker's friends, this creepy blue-eyed juggernaut who spends time in Russia and likes vodka (no, really?), kept giving me the creepy blue-eyed stare. This culminated to when I left the bathroom upstairs almost walking into some silhouette in the doorway, which after I turned the light back on was him.
I kept looking at him, he said. And while he said this his hands were on my arms (he kept petting my hand earlier, too).
Yes, I reply--because you kept looking at me. I feel eyes on me.
Then I said Excuse me and went back downstairs, and didn't see him anymore that night. I guess he left soon after.
This one has the tendency of attracting the creepy; or the underaged, in the case of one of Sammi's (female) friends XP
Come to think of it, Seth and Colton and His Smokiness all have blue eyes, too. Seth's doing 14-Life and is officially some inmate's Bitch now; Colton's smart but last I checked not really doing anything; and His Smokiness is sadly unavailable.
Maybe I should look up Jay when I'm home this summer. Nice, not creepy, dark-eyed Irish Jew of Color. Soldier. Currently working at a women's clothing store. Looks like Adamo Ruggiero aka Marco from Degrassi: The Next Generation. Short, and thus endearing to all his lady customers (he apparently will try on and model the clothing for them, if they request--which they do) ^^
I've been reading this book of short stories by Poppy Z. Brite, entitled Wormwood. She's sort of like Anne Rice, but on crack. I mean this in a good way, should anyone not like Anne Rice. It's just similar themes and frames and shit: Southern if not Louisiana/New Orleans settings, morbid-hot guys (and some girls), LGBT tones, supernatural shit, sex drugs rock n' roll et cetera. I just finished a short story about a guy in Calcutta who has a very weird experience in a shrine to Kali.
Excerpt, p. 170:
There are a million names for her, a million vivid descriptions: Kali the Terrible, Kali the Ferocious, skull-necklace, destroyer of men, eater of souls. But to me she was Mother Kali, the only one of the vast and colorful pantheon of Hindu gods that stirred my imagination and lifted my heart. She was the Destroyer, but all final refuge was found in her. She was the goddess of the age. She could bleed and burn and still rise again, very awake, beatifully terrible.
p. 172:
I heard a shout from outside and turned my head for a moment. When I looked back, the four arms seemed to have woven themselves into a new pattern, the long tongue seemed to loll father from the scarlet mouth. And--this was a frequent fantasy of mine--the wide hips now seemed to tilt forward, affording me a glimpse of the sweet and terrible petalled cleft between the thighs of the goddess.
I smiled up at the lovely sly face. "If only I had a tongue as long as yours, Mother," I murmured, "I would kneel before you and lick the folds of your holy pussy until you screamed with joy." The toothy grin seemed to grow wider, more lascivious. I imagined much in the presence of Kali.
On an unrelated note, my own incredibly long tongue surprised all the people I'd never met before last night. Alex's co-worker now has a picture of it, dyed blue I believe from whatever I'd been drinking. It's one of my better shocking features, I guess.
And after Theatre Works, it's all but unanimous that I should dye my own hair blue, since everyone loved me in the hot electric blue wig that made me look like a deranged anime character, or as Alex put it, Some Japanese guy's wet dream. I have consented. We do not know when my hair shall become blue, but it shall, sometime, if only to toy with it. I think at the beginning we'll just toy with part of the hair, say blue strips in the brown or having it blue in the front or something. We'll see.
And today: I work on some of this Postco LTTE stuff. Bless the British, without whom much of our course material--Jamaica Kincaid, James Joyce, Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Salman Rushdie--would perhaps be nonexistent and obsolete. And let's not forget their heavy influence in the whole, Pakistan India Bangladesh Sri Lanka, stuff.
Actually, I think that sans the British my Intifada paper might have been much, much shorter.
Postcolonialism and Literature feels like such a carry-over from Nationalism in the Middle East that it ain't even funny sometimes. I'm reading up on this Sinhalese-Tamil stuff and I keep feeling, Israel-Palestine, or sometimes, India-Pakistan, which I suppose would make more sense given the geographical location of the LTTE (Sri Lanka).
I'll tell you, this is the first time I've really closely acquainted myself with Buddhist extremism (on the part of the Sinhalese; the LTTE are Hindu).
And my Tigers, by the way, if we agree with the fifty-some countries that label them terrorists, are the smartest, scariest fucking terrorists in the world. They have their own naval fleet and they invented the suicide bombing as we know it today. A few months after their first suicide bombing in 1987, Hamas launched the first suicide bombing of the Palestinian First Intifada. To date the LTTE has deployed more suicide bomb attacks than Islamic Jihad, Hamas, and al-Qaeda combined. These are some formidable bastards, Comrades.
Well, enough of that, until I've got a better grip on this Postco project, at least. No worries, I'm quite sure this shan't be the last you hear of the Tigers; if I'm late in giving you more, just look at some news site: they've been all over the place since January.
Last night I went with Amber, Alex, and Johnna to the house party of one of Alex's co-workers. It started off kinda Eh but it got better. Although one of co-worker's friends, this creepy blue-eyed juggernaut who spends time in Russia and likes vodka (no, really?), kept giving me the creepy blue-eyed stare. This culminated to when I left the bathroom upstairs almost walking into some silhouette in the doorway, which after I turned the light back on was him.
I kept looking at him, he said. And while he said this his hands were on my arms (he kept petting my hand earlier, too).
Yes, I reply--because you kept looking at me. I feel eyes on me.
Then I said Excuse me and went back downstairs, and didn't see him anymore that night. I guess he left soon after.
This one has the tendency of attracting the creepy; or the underaged, in the case of one of Sammi's (female) friends XP
Come to think of it, Seth and Colton and His Smokiness all have blue eyes, too. Seth's doing 14-Life and is officially some inmate's Bitch now; Colton's smart but last I checked not really doing anything; and His Smokiness is sadly unavailable.
Maybe I should look up Jay when I'm home this summer. Nice, not creepy, dark-eyed Irish Jew of Color. Soldier. Currently working at a women's clothing store. Looks like Adamo Ruggiero aka Marco from Degrassi: The Next Generation. Short, and thus endearing to all his lady customers (he apparently will try on and model the clothing for them, if they request--which they do) ^^
I've been reading this book of short stories by Poppy Z. Brite, entitled Wormwood. She's sort of like Anne Rice, but on crack. I mean this in a good way, should anyone not like Anne Rice. It's just similar themes and frames and shit: Southern if not Louisiana/New Orleans settings, morbid-hot guys (and some girls), LGBT tones, supernatural shit, sex drugs rock n' roll et cetera. I just finished a short story about a guy in Calcutta who has a very weird experience in a shrine to Kali.
Excerpt, p. 170:
There are a million names for her, a million vivid descriptions: Kali the Terrible, Kali the Ferocious, skull-necklace, destroyer of men, eater of souls. But to me she was Mother Kali, the only one of the vast and colorful pantheon of Hindu gods that stirred my imagination and lifted my heart. She was the Destroyer, but all final refuge was found in her. She was the goddess of the age. She could bleed and burn and still rise again, very awake, beatifully terrible.
p. 172:
I heard a shout from outside and turned my head for a moment. When I looked back, the four arms seemed to have woven themselves into a new pattern, the long tongue seemed to loll father from the scarlet mouth. And--this was a frequent fantasy of mine--the wide hips now seemed to tilt forward, affording me a glimpse of the sweet and terrible petalled cleft between the thighs of the goddess.
I smiled up at the lovely sly face. "If only I had a tongue as long as yours, Mother," I murmured, "I would kneel before you and lick the folds of your holy pussy until you screamed with joy." The toothy grin seemed to grow wider, more lascivious. I imagined much in the presence of Kali.
On an unrelated note, my own incredibly long tongue surprised all the people I'd never met before last night. Alex's co-worker now has a picture of it, dyed blue I believe from whatever I'd been drinking. It's one of my better shocking features, I guess.
And after Theatre Works, it's all but unanimous that I should dye my own hair blue, since everyone loved me in the hot electric blue wig that made me look like a deranged anime character, or as Alex put it, Some Japanese guy's wet dream. I have consented. We do not know when my hair shall become blue, but it shall, sometime, if only to toy with it. I think at the beginning we'll just toy with part of the hair, say blue strips in the brown or having it blue in the front or something. We'll see.
And today: I work on some of this Postco LTTE stuff. Bless the British, without whom much of our course material--Jamaica Kincaid, James Joyce, Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Salman Rushdie--would perhaps be nonexistent and obsolete. And let's not forget their heavy influence in the whole, Pakistan India Bangladesh Sri Lanka, stuff.
Actually, I think that sans the British my Intifada paper might have been much, much shorter.