The Labyrinthine

November 25, 2009

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November 23, 2009

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November 22, 2009

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November 21, 2009

To Some It Comes Easy

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November 20, 2009


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3 December 2009 – 6 February 2010

‘There is only one thing I fear in life, my friend…
One day the black will swallow the red.’

Under the watchful gaze of his young assistant and the threatening presence of a new generation of artists, Mark Rothko takes on his greatest challenge yet: to create a definitive work for an extraordinary setting.

A moving and compelling account of one of the greatest artists of the 20th century whose struggle to accept his growing riches and praise became his ultimate undoing.


Why I want so desperately to see this?  The obvious is my utter devotion to Rothko, but the more compelling one I find at present is that boy playing the ‘assistant’ right next to Molina’s Rothko.  *sighs*  Oh what I wouldn’t give to be in London at that time….

Filed under: Uncategorized — thelabyrinthine @ 3:37 am

Is This All For Real – Shigeto from Moongadget: Nocturnal Suites

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They never did look much like each other, Estha and Rahel, and even when they were thin-armed children, flat-chested, wormridden and Elvis Presley-puffed, there was none of the usual “Who is who?” and “Which is which?” from oversmiling relatives or the Syrian Orthodox bishops who frequently visited the Ayemenem House for donations.

The confusion lay in a deeper, more secret place.

In those early amorphous years when memory had only just begun, when life was full of Beginnings and no Ends, and Everything was Forever, Esthappen and Rahel thought of themselves together as Me, and separately, individually, as We or Us. As though they were a rare breed of Siamese twins, physically separate, but with joint identities.

Now, these years later, Rahel has a memory of waking up one night giggling at Estha’s funny dream.

She has other memories too that she has no right to have.

She remembers, for instance (though she hadn’t been there), what the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man did to Estha in Abhilash Talkies. She remembers the taste of the tomato sandwiches–Estha’s sandwiches, that Estha ate–on the Madras Mail to Madras.

And these are only the small things.

Anyway, now she thinks of Estha and Rahel as Them, because, separately, the two of them are no longer what They were or ever thought They’d be.


Their lives have a size and a shape now. Estha has his and Rahel hers.

Edges, Borders, Boundaries, Brinks and Limits have appeared like a team of trolls on their separate horizons. Short creatures with long shadows, patrolling the Blurry End. Gentle half-moons have gathered under their eyes and they are as old as Ammu was when she died. Thirty-one.

Not old.

Not young.

But a viable die-able age.

~ The God of Small Things – Arundhati Roy

Androgyny <3

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November 19, 2009

In quest of a labyrinth

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A Dream

In a deserted place in Iran there is a not very tall stone tower that has neither door nor window. In the only room (with a dirt floor and shaped like a circle) there is a wooden table and a bench. In that circular cell, a man who looks like me is writing in letters I cannot understand a long poem about a man who in another circular cell is writing a poem about a man who in another circular cell . . . The process never ends and no one will be able to read what the prisoners write.

by Jorge Luis Borges
(Translated, from the Spanish, by Suzanne Jill Levine.)