benzy: 2014

30.6.14

Aquarela do Brasil

Brazil, where hearts were entertaining June We stood beneath an amber moon And softly murmured "Someday soon" We kissed and clung together Then, tomorrow was another day The morning found me miles away With still a million things to say Now, when twilight dims the sky above Recalling thrills of our love There's one thing I'm certain of Return I will to old Brazil

- Ary Barroso / Bob Russell

26.6.14

#424

I shall have my music for nothing.

19.6.14

Towards A Sense Of 2666

Anything is possible, but there is no need to descend into chaos.

- Roberto Bolaño, 2666

17.6.14

Concert II (28th & 29th March, 2014)

The Ari Roland Quartet (USA)

Smarton Trio (Hungary)

Mina Agossi (France)

14.6.14

Concert I (23rd March, 2014)

12.6.14

Birthday Blues

I just got a year older.
Fuck, truth hurts.

10.6.14

A Day In The Life

7am - 10am

5.6.14

Inside Bolaño's World

“All names disappear. Children should be taught that in elementary school.

But we're afraid to teach them.”

― Roberto Bolaño, 2666

2.6.14

Another Day

1.6.14

Oh, Summer!

31.5.14

On Youth

"Fucking youth, he said. Goddamn fucking youth."

— Roberto Bolaño | 2666, The Part About Archimboldi

Literature, Masterpieces & Minor Work.

"I was a writer, I was a writer, but my indolent, voracious brain gnawed at my own entrails. Vulture of my Prometheus self or Prometheus of my vulture self, one day I understood that I might go so far as to publish excellent articles in magazines and newspapers, and even books that weren’t unworthy of the paper on which they were printed. But I also understood that I would never manage to create anything like a masterpiece. You may say that literature doesn’t consist solely of masterpieces, but rather is populated by so-called minor works. I believed that, too. Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wild-flowers. I was wrong. There’s actually no such thing as a minor work."

— Roberto Bolaño | 2666, The Part About Archimboldi

Good Evening, Sputnik Sweetheart

And so I held up Sputnik Sweetheart up against the sunset just before the thunderstorm.

I guess this is what nostalgia looks like.

Rhinoceros

A doodle I made during one of my french drama classes.

An interpretation of Eugene Ionesco's Rhinoceros.

30.5.14

I Will. I Must.

One day I shall write a great book so high and wild
I will never have to write another word ever again.
It will be elegant in prose and sheer in magnitude.
It will start with nothing and end with nothing.

28.5.14

Everything Ends (Painfully)

In time my clothes will turn to rags and I will be naked.
One day I will drown and I will be free.

25.5.14

A (Faux) Letter To An Old Friend

"Oh, you are really such a pretty one.

I see you've gone and changed your name again."

— Leonard Cohen

My nights have been restless. It is not your fault. It is half the weather and half my memory. I don't know if my last letter ever reached you. I included a couple of postcards as well. On the back of one of them I wrote "have a beautiful summer." That was two months ago. Between then and now I've been to a few places, read a few books and wrote a few articles and met a few people, just to fill up my time. Oftentimes I've sat down and pondered if I should write you another letter and each time I've forced myself not to because who knows these are delicate times. But the words keep bubbling inside and here I am writing you this pseudo-letter which you’ll probably never read. This is not an exercise in catharsis. This is love. I'll suspend my disbelief, fool myself and call it that. The days are long but this is not such a bad ending.

Happy birthday, C. I hope you didn't miss the meteor shower.

Sincerely,
B.

16.5.14

With A Frightful Heart

I'm

trembling

because

I'm

in

love

with

you.

6.5.14

OVLE

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvv

vvv

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

5.5.14

Synaptic Dislocation

I'm taking a break from society. I'm taking a break from society.

30.4.14

Paranoid Nation

25.4.14

Birds Of Morning

20.4.14

Another Day, Another Tragedy

18.4.14

I'll Get By

16.4.14

Imagined Thoughts V

I'm starting to believe that life, after all,
is just a collection of inconvenient moments.

15.4.14

Imagined Thoughts IV

A poet's lusts knows no bounds.
My lust (for poetry) knows no bounds.

12.4.14

Imagined Thoughts III

Freedom is a dictator.

10.4.14

Imagined Thoughts II

It was a hot black night.

8.4.14

Imagined Thoughts I

Gambling away my sainthood for her untouchable beauty.

2.4.14

A Song For April

Where are the songs of April?
What are the songs of April?
Somewhere we are born
somewhere we die.
The white midday heat
the rough edges of the iron railings
leave nothing but bruises,
reminding you of your own mortality.
A blot in my eye.
Where is the rain?

28.3.14

Blue Mary

I bought this book specifically for the cover (photograph by Kristin Perers). Just look at it, the composition is brilliant. I have read the book but somehow it failed to move me. There are however parts of it that I like. I won't be reading it again anytime soon, maybe never. But I will, however, be taking this book out of the book shelf to stare at the cover from time to time.

Desolate Visions

The 27th State

I picked up twenty seven books from several used book stores about two weeks ago. It is an elective collection which includes a variety of genres ranging from pulp to trashy to historical and a few critical studies. There is also among them a little french novella titled 'Les petits enfants du siecle' by Christine Rochefort. I don't know why I even bought it; I can't even read french. Maybe it's because I liked the vertical notes and phrase translations done with pencil and black ball point pen by the previous owner of the book that I found while filliping through the book at the store. Perhaps that was the clincher. Old markings are always outrageously romantic. At least for me they are.

Well, here they are - my new children. It looks like an interesting year for me ahead.

Wish you all a great summer.

Cheers
Benzy

Spring 2014

I wish you all a wonderful Spring. Read more books, drink more tea & never miss out any concert.

A Duet With The Red Stones

The Red Fort from the other side of the busy Sunday road.

Mother. Pups.

Broken Reflections

La vraie vie est absente.

— Arthur Rimbaud

Three Stories

1. Taken on the 10th of December, 2013, a fogless night.
2. Taken sometime in February, 2014, outside an art exhibition.
3. I forget. It was a warm afternoon.

An Oasis Of Horror

An oasis of horror

In a desert of boredom!

— Charles Baudelaire

26.3.14

Exhibition: Red, Green, Black & White

A group of young artists got together and organized a two day open exhibition just outside the college cafeteria about two weeks ago. The displayed art works ranged from interesting to impressive, some were simply loud and beautiful. Here are some photographs that I took on the second day of the exhibition.