Cafe Picasso: Where the Surrealists float

Le chat enorme

2008-12-09T15:04:00.000-08:00

The apocalypse might begin in alleyways lit by orange gaslights. It might begin in jazz pubs. How about jazz pubs in Prague? I wonder if they have any. Gaslights and jazz bars...yes..that's what I'd look for in Prague. I danced once, at a jazz club last year. The light was dim, the stage smelt stale, and there was no light in the washroom. It was warm though, and the winter evening outside chilled me to the bone. Jazz grey.

S(c)aturation

2008-12-04T19:24:00.000-08:00

Human saturation. Personality saturation. Gestural saturation. Overripe watermelons in the heat. Rinds of consumed melons lying by the edge of the road, licked by mongrels. Their skins matted, caked with mud, dust, blood. Mongrels in streetfights.
The dirt in your toes when you wear an open toed sandal. The dust in your mouth. Grains of dust between your teeth. The dust between your sole and the sandal. The dust between your sole and your soul.
Devout noisy flies. Devout, chaste, holy flies. Sacred flies. On rotting melons.

Yury Olesha's wonderful tale

2008-10-29T00:30:00.000-07:00

Today I read a wonderful story. It is "Three Fat Men" by the Russian author Yury Olesha. I revisited it today actually...I had read the book as a child in Delhi..my mother had brought it home from the library of the medical institute where she worked...it was the most unlikely book to be found in a medical library...an old tattered copy, beautifully bound, with large, colorful pictures, almost done in the style of Chinese paintings.
As a ten year old, I was fascinated by the book, and deeply moved and touched by it..there was something in the book that had spoken to me, and quite literally stirred me...those who will read the book will know what I'm talking about. There's something magical and yet heart-rending about the stories, the little interweaved stories that weave together to create this almost carnivalesque scene evoking the February Revolution in Russia in 1917. Upon revisiting it as an adult (albeit in an alienated way, through an e-text, almost a summarized one, without the lovely pictures beside the pages), I find that the story still speaks to me, and the characters and their stories still speak to me, and I feel genuine pangs for some of the characters. I highly recommend the book to anyone who cares to read it...or atleast to visit the electronic summary version:

http://www.sovlit.com/fatmen.html

A study

2008-10-26T19:27:00.000-07:00

It was one of those nights with friends...friends that one can be one's decadent self in front of...we danced the roads, we peered down at the city lights from the massive 20th floor glass walls...the city was ours...and perhaps almost caught a glimpse of the ballet girls dancing in their studio...we might have..we spent hours in the jacuzzi, letting our skins and souls soak the warmth of the water...and then squeezing the warmth out in the sauna..and then we spent half the night watching Fiddler on the Roof, sitting next to the great window, in the company of the city lights, with our tastes tickled by icecream. And then I studied alone, sitting next to the city, in the company of a lone hanging lamp, at the dead of night, while they slept..

2008-10-22T18:53:00.000-07:00

I showcased a new choreography today..it is still in its most infantile stages yet..the showcase was a showing of work-in-progress. it was inspired by an idea i've had in my head for almost a year and a half now....actually, a collage of three distinct ideas..one inspired by a photograph and a short story titled "Flowers" from Maxim Gorky's "Tales of Italy". I liked presenting it in its embryonic stage...twas fun!

Random thought during a late-night study session

2008-10-03T23:52:00.001-07:00

Discourses of the body make a fascinating study.... of ancient blood rituals, dismemberment, disemboweling....their public displays in art (and only in art)..

Untitled--October 1, 2008

2008-10-01T00:31:00.000-07:00

Another night up, but in satisfyingly Dionysian pursuit of the muse...an academic Dionysian this time...Dionysus in his study....another cup of herbal tea...watching the red of the teabag bleed into the water...beautiful...like watching blood in water...or perhaps a red dye....maybe dye is prettier than blood.

'He Cabinet': Automatist in that it came from "within", Dadaist in that its form was "found"

2008-09-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

HE CABINET

1. zzji is jizz.
2. boli is boil.
3. valo is oval.
4. egg is egg.
5. eydtrn is trendy.
6. erqvui is quiver.
7. rfoolrn is forlorn.
8. rbudei is buried.
9. skyy is skyy.10. yxes is sexy.
11. rrbodaadc is cardboard.
12. inec is nice.
13. ctiarnu is curtain.
14. laebt is table.
15. ltasse is tassle.
16. ptcha is patch.
17. idtatns is distant.
18. rnbu is burn.

2007-12-09T19:30:00.000-08:00

I come back to something I meant to do almost about a year ago...to write about a monumental week...I choose the word "monumental" because its a word Hegel, or perhaps even Nietzsche would have chosen...I did find Nietzsche inspiring, though Hegel was unbearable.
When I finally did get off at the Delhi airport (after being detoured to Singapore, and spending fourteen hours listening to The Doors "Strange Days" (which I found quite coincidental..I was about to enter the strangest days of my life shortly..beautifully strange..)..I also watched "Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest" a number of times on the inflight movie screen..(I happen to find Johnny Depp amusing and entertaining)
As our Jet Airways flight from Singapore touched down in Delhi...the pilot said "To all visitors..Welcome to India..and to all Indians..welcome home"....and it felt good, hearing his words in his very pilot- voice. As I got down, and the crew members (some of whom I had had good conversations with) bid us farewell and a pleasant visit...I was greeted by the thick early-morning Delhi fog.
It was 4 am, and very dark. We passengers climbed aboard a small bus which would take us closer to the terminal. As I got into the bus (it was dark..very dark)...I noticed a small figure of the god Shiva on the driver's dashboard...it had twinkling red and green L.E.D lights all around it...those were, perhaps, the only lights in the whole bus...and all that stood out in the darkness was the tiny figure of Shiva...I would meet him again, later in the trip...and he wouldn't be alone.
The bus took us to inside the airport...where we immediately discovered that one of our luggage pieces had never arrived from Singapore...it immediately set into action a chain of chaotic events..running around from counter to counter, filling numerous forms, and arguing with officials who responded in shrugs and irritated looks. After two hours of that, mom and I finally got out of the airport, and a friend was waiting to take us to their home, where we were greeted with a lovely idli-sambar breakfast, with hot coffee.

More later...there is much to tell..

Trajectoricus

2007-05-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

I find it difficult to remain on a linear path for too long..my mind doesn't take to rationality, logic, sequence, and other such manifestations of linearity...so I thought I would digress from my story of my journey to India to speak of more recent experiences..the story of the India journey will be continued ofcourse, for it deserves to be told, but perhaps not just now..it also deserves a "right moment" to be told.
I sit on the eve of my class in the Greek chorus..guest taught by a professor from Greece...and I'm overjoyed actually..to be able to learn firsthand, an artform which I had read about in the theatre history books in my second year, back in my undergraduate days, and references to which I encountered in Nietzsche's "The Birth of Tragedy". Incidentally, one of the earliest Greek tragedians started out working in a vineyard..its astounding how the ancient arts truly had their roots in Dionysus and his realm.

From pages scribbled in Ink

2007-02-12T20:35:00.000-08:00

The following narrative extract is taken directly from a journal I attempted to maintain for a while during the Journey.

December 13, 2006

I'm writing in the domestic airport in Delhi, as I wait for the arrival of the Jet Airways plane that will be carrying me to Sikkim. It seems that the last four days (or however many it's been-I've lost count), all I have seen is the interiors of airports and carrier planes. If I were to recognize people, I would probably identify them by how many seats away they sat from me in the plane, and how close to the washroom they were, rather than their name or smile. There is something dehumanizing about long journeys.

Our flight from Toronto to London was delayed by over two hours, and that in turn, made us miss our flight from London to New Delhi. As a result- my mother and I were expected to wait in line for four hours, without water, for compensation tickets. Around me were humans of all races, from all corners of the world..all bearing the same looks of frustration upon their faces. As each family progressed towards the tickets counter, one heard a fresh set of arguments, and knew that it would take another twenty minutes before the next person would progress towards the counter. That moment was, perhaps, the most "human" part of the journey thus far...there was something about the common frustration that led us to bond with one another. I befriended a wonderful woman from Malta who was travelling home to be with her family for Christmas. She spoke of how excited she was, and how she would miss her cat.
Fast forward(37 hours later): we landed in Delhi after a 12 hour detour to Singapore to catch the next available flight to Delhi. (not fun). On the up side, the food at Heathrow Airport in London was darn good, and the alcohol was darn cheap.

Added Note: I meet bluesy boy in five days.
--------------------------------End of Entry---------------------------------------------------

The Life and Times of a Choreographic Study

2007-02-12T20:00:00.000-08:00

Of late, I have been fascinated by a concept thought up by the legendary tap dancer Gregory Hines..that of Improvography. The word "Improvography" consists, essentially, of two words put together: Improvisation, and Choreography. The two words seem to be quite the antithesis of each other, with one denoting carefully planned movement, and the other's emphasis on instinctual movement, and I will leave that at that.

A week ago, as I pushed myself to come out of the rather agonizingly long creative block I had fallen upon, it occured to me that I could not sit and conceptualize the piece at my table. Usually, I do go into the studio with a vision. Instead, I decided to go into the studio, and see where the music would take me. In the absolute darkness, with the light of a small, battery-powered red lantern, and the music of Danny Elfman playing..I started with the earth....and out of the earth grew its own being...the choreography...

I can't, in retrospect, seem to find the words to complete the post..the feeling was quite undescribable...to see a piece of choreography birthed in darkness, by the light of a tiny lantern..the piece echoing birth itself..

2007-01-15T21:32:00.000-08:00

Oh what a time it was! Surreal, beautiful in every way. I had been preparing for it the whole year...my journey to India..

And finally, on December 9th, 2006, it happened. I boarded the British Airways flight to London after having a quick and sentimental pizza dinner at an airport resturant with my dad. Dad wasn't travelling with us, it was just going to be me and mom. The flight was delayed in its takeoff by two hours, due to the plane's delay in arrival. I'll come back to that later...it's significant.

As the plane took off, I saw my Toronto..my beautiful, unexplored city and its lights..and I waved a silent goodbye. I was excited...and yet, it felt like a dream. I hadn't been back to India in 6 years. Infact, the last I had seen India and my hometown Delhi, was the time I had left it. And I had left with bittersweet memories of a last dance class with a teacher who had genuine faith in me. I was 16 back then. I was returning for a three-week visit at 23. I was a student, and had worked the whole summer to pay for my ticket.

I was returning for a myriad of reasons perhaps, all of which were jumbled in my head...

I spent my time onboard the plane to London in trancelike state, enchanted by the newness and the utter absurdity and the beauty of the experience...i alternately watched "Pirates of the Carribean 2" on the miniscreen and switched to the classic rock radio station. They played two albums on it..The Doors "Strange Days", and Cream's "Fresh Cream". .it was haunting..Jim Morrison's voice crooning "You're Lost Little Girl"..I felt tiny inside a big plane flying through a vast sky. .and it was floaty...dreamlike..that's the word that keeps coming into my mind for my existence at that moment.

..To be continued...

Continuum

2006-11-07T22:00:00.000-08:00

I'm back. Summer was a creative desert, untheatrical and romantic. Or perhaps its the romance that caused the dryness. Anyhow, there's something beautiful about the temporal delirium that the lack of water sends one in. I'm back in university, doing a degree in dance. More significantly, I'm choreographing once more. Its a surrealist piece, exploring the bizarre, the grotesque, and the sublime. I conceptualized the piece, and now its spinning off in a completely different direction. Or perhaps its staying true to the bizarrenalia it embodies. Beautiful chaos. Its the sinking feeling of losing control, juxtaposed with the thrill of seeing the work exploring space through its own organic self. Creative frustration once more, but of a kind I quite like. Or perhaps its the familiarity with the feeling that I take comfort in. I'm short of time, but my dancers are quick. And they promise to put up with my oddities. I'm content.

Words Without Direction..

2006-05-29T13:12:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wonder if she is a product of post-modernism. She reminds me of an Ottoman ruler in her absolutism, or of Damien's punisher, against whom he attempted regicide, in Foucault's "Discipline and Punish". If she attacks me, I'll just wish her beautiful insanity...hmm..I wonder if madmen are the true bohemians. Are the secrets of the universe hidden away in the human mind? I like madmen. Someday I'll write an ode to them. Nietzsche and Nijinsky...my two favourites in history..were both deemed insane..and Nijinsky was locked away as one. Vasilev Nijinsky..the choreographer madman..and a beautiful one at that. Someday, I'll do the pioneers of the avant garde justice.
What is critical theory? Academic intellectualism is both fascinating and boorish. I want to write a geeky student-cafe song. I hate the orders of the academic establishment..I hate exams..and yet I loved being a student. Heck, I'll be a student for a few more years. Where do studenthood and madness meet? Do they?

Shards of Disillusionment

2006-04-16T17:17:00.000-07:00

This is what I said yesterday:

I stand somewhere between the Beat generation and the hippies. I detest the cerebral 'logic' of the beats. I detest the flouroscence of the hippies. I love the intelligence of the beats. I adore the filthiness, the ideals of the hippies. I love the beats for staying true. I hate the hippies for allowing themselves to fade out.

This is what I say today, 24 hours later:

I've been robbed by a hippie. That's right..quite literally. My last ten dollars was taken by a 60 year old female hippie musician, feigning a headache n then going off with the cash. To some crack or dope dealer I'd reckon. She walked way too fast for her to have had a headache. And now I'm left with 36 cents for the rest of the week. Feels quite surreal actually, knowing that I won't be able to afford even a cup of coffee tomorrow morning. To think, I once looked up to them for resisting the overwhelming capitalist economy and having the balls to create their own identity without havin someone else create it for them. Makes me wonder--who takes money from a student?

The Prey

2006-03-07T03:40:00.000-08:00

I've streaks of purple dye in my hair. I'm playing the 'vulture' in the Myth of Prometheus. Yep, the original byrd mentioned in the Greek myth was an eagle, but in our neo-modernist production, I'm a vulture. I've a ring of feathers in my hair. My co-actresses are talented. One plays the piano while we're getting into costume. The other brings her sketchbook along and sits in the corner and sketches her own costume designs and superhero comic book characters. The director is busy taking production shots. The stage manager is busy with the scrim lighting and technical cues. The videographer arrives this evening, to film our 6 pm show. Prometheus practises walking around in his chains, and stuffing his costume with bloody intestines.
My vulture-sister and I look out the green roooom window onto the floor beneath us. We feel just as hideous as our makeup makes us. We see a child trying to push through the crowd. Vulture-sister hissses. The child looks up. We purr at it and flash our metallic nails. The child stands there, frozen, its eyes wide. It sees the carrion feeders. The crowd begins to push it in the opposite direction. But it keeps staring at the window. The Vulture-sisters hisss lovingly as the masses pushh the child away. Away from the sanctuary of the irrational. Experimental Theatre.

Unlineations I

2006-02-11T02:47:00.000-08:00

I now know the thrill that musicians feel upon practising their instrument. I practised my riz (Egyptian tambourine) today. I'm sure it's overly cliched, but I felt the need to mention..it's interesting how we set out to do something else and end up doing something completely different. For example, tonight I was going to study French and read Hugo's Les Orientals ..I was supposed to go to an opera called Les Dialogues des Carmelites as well. As it turned out, I wasn't able to get tickets for the opera, and I did get hold of my books, but ended up practising the tambourine and dancing instead. So here I am, at 6 in the morning, trying to finish the Hugo reading. Interesting side note: An alarm clock, in French, is called 'reveille-matin', meaning 'waking up in the morning'...mine fails to wake me up...I disregard it completely..in any case, it is usually the afternoon when it is tuned to beep.

Des mots..

2006-01-29T23:38:00.000-08:00

I picked up Jean-Paul Sartre's novel Nausea today. The introduction was rather depressing. And so was the bit of online research that I decided to do upon him. It reminded me of a piece of writing I did back when I was 15, in Delhi, celebrating miscarriages. I guess 'celebration' is too fruity a word...lets say I saw light in the deaths of unborns. I felt they were quite blessed, really. After remembering that, Sartre and the introduction to him, felt like fruitcake. I suddenly like that word...fruit..and its associates..fruity, fruitsome, fruitlike..feels juicy..and reminds me of life,vitamins and citric acid. Whoa...I just realized..the words vita-mins and vita-lity have a lot in common..damn..the wonders of blogging. And just thinking of fruit makes me want to get started on my French essay, which I had otherwise intended to procrastinate till the middle of the week.
On the other front, I watched, over the weekend, one of the most famous films of all time..a film called Un Chien d'Andalou..co-directed by Luis Buneul and the famous surrealist artist, Salvador Dali. It's a short film..approximately 17 minutes long..and was highly controversial in its day. While I feel that I have made better film (do pardon the arrogance)..I did see moments of brilliance in Un Chien d'Andalou, and I can see why it would be considered revolutionary in its day. Here is the link, should anyone care to watch it:

http://tesla.liketelevision.com/liketelevision/tuner.php?channel=1099&format=movie&theme=guide

Au revoir mes amis.

Adventures in Film Making II

2006-01-22T01:06:00.000-08:00

Our film premiered today..at the festival..and we won..Best Editing!! Woohoo!! The title was "Was Spielen Wir?", which, in German, means "What are we playing? " Unfortunately, I forgot to take my id to the official after party, and hence was not allowed to buy alchohol..what a bummer! My friend and I finished choreographing a piece today for two shows we have in March..it's rather difficult to accomodate everyone's ideas into a piece, but thankfully the piece is done and just needs polishing. I think I'd like to call it the Dance of Mystic Fire..because of the fire-coloured veils we're using in it..I like wierd names for dance pieces. Dang..its the last semester of my undergrad..and somehow my stamina for studying seems to have run away..so has the will ..just two more months..hopefully it'll be over soon. I hope everyone's had a wonderful week and weekend!! Cheers!!

Adventures in Film-making

2006-01-14T22:05:00.000-08:00

I've just returned from thirteen hours of continuous shooting. For introductions...we're making a film...a few associates and I...a short film..for a film festival. Interestingly enough, the film was shot in the same studio-theatre where I had my first acting class at university. What was my part in the film? I'm co-directing it. It took us three hours to get the equipment set up where we wanted it..and our blocking, as well as the cinematographer's blocking down. Then came the actual shooting. We have wonderfully talented actors this year...an all-male cast..Six hours later, the light gels had melted, fumes were coming out of the lights....and we shot on until there was no colour left...ordered pizza...ate while blocking..and went back to shooting. Then the lights went out after a power surge in the building..we crossed our fingers and ran around trying to find a second set of lights which matched the intensity of our initial lights. My fingers still smell of filament and gel..lol Tomorrow we edit it. It doesn't have a name yet. Our film..or as I like to call it...MY film...will be christened tomorrow.

"exotic excesses of feeling.."--from Thomas Mann

2006-01-06T13:09:00.000-08:00

A few profound words which stood out to me, as I was reading Thomas Mann's Death in Venice, written in 1911..

"Art heightens life. She gives deeper joy, she consumes more swiftly. She engraves adventures of the spirit and the mind in the faces of her votaries"

"Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous...But also, to gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd."

"Passion is like a crime: it does not thrive on the established order and the common round; it welcomes every blow dealt the bourgeois structure, every weakening of the social fabric"

--Frustration clears the ground for the birth of fresh inspiration...the artist transcends all..we are licensed to excess in all..intoxications, madness, knowledge, pain, jealousy..
I once read Gargantua and Pantagruel, written by Rebelais in 1453 or so..quite crude, literally...but I did enjoy reading it...it showed me the carnivalesque in mediocre existence.

Hier et Avant-Hier:)

2005-12-27T17:02:00.000-08:00

At this moment, morbidity makes me smile. I quite like it. Or perhaps this penchant of mine is a sign of the Romanticism of our dry post-modern era..who knows? Gods, the bourgeouis education has done me good..I have learnt..and my Second Creator..he turned me from the arrogant martyr to the vampiric seeker of transcendence and stagnant morbidity. Or perhaps the latter two are a result of my interactions with Ashes..I grudgingly admit, his work has influenced my writing more than I would have expected.
Six years ago, I would have longed to spend my early hours of Christmas at the Vatican, or perhaps the Church of the Nativity in Jerusalem. But this year, I found satisfaction in spending it in isolation, in my dance studio. The family had gone out for a Christmas Eve dinner party. I couldn't stand another one of those..I longed for isolation..it was so beautifully familiar. I spent the sacred moments watching Interview with the Vampire on my tv in the studio..irony..five years ago, I would've been furious at the idea of having a materialistic object like a television in a sacred space such as my dance studio..I have succumbed...it scares me, and I pray it wont affect my art for the worse..irony again..I am an atheist..a mystic atheist ...no not agnostic, just mystic atheist..or better yet..I belong to the Church of Art, started by the dancer Ruth St. Denis in the early 20th century...worshipping art in all its beauty and terror...
Yes, I spent my early moments of Christmas watching a gorgeous vampire film and smiling at the morbid ideas of possessing a slave-girl with some wit and a theatrical flair. Damnit all..theatre is profound..and has this uncanny tendency of turning up in all things I find beautiful. Theatre, art, books, wine..if only I could indulge myself with these for all eternity.
Christmas evening..a family dinner once again...one filled with pesky sisters who love to play cards with stakes..I had a book with me..Thomas Mann's Death in Venice..but I didn't get the opportunity to read it..spent the evening chatting with an aunt who was visiting from another town....and a fascinating young lady who's done her French degree from Tunisia..North Africa has always fascinated me..and I'm considering moving there for my own degree in French someday..perhaps Algeria or Morocco.
I discovered..the one good thing about having sisters around is that they can be extremely useful in sneaking you extra drinks..one snuck me four glasses of wine. I did have a cozy family Christmas after all...it felt good to have loved ones around.
Yesterday I went Boxing Day shopping, and I was fortunate enough to stumble into an Egyptian store. I ended up buying an Egyptian scarf and other costume pieces there..if they're approved by my troupemates, I could end up wearing them at the dance festival in march. Last night I started work on my novella...I want to write in first person but I'm still debating on the point of view I ought to write from..the mentor or the protege. Hopefully I'll get some more of it done today. My dance studio has become my writing haunt as well.

Cries for the Apollonian

2005-12-18T15:42:00.000-08:00

I've been wondering about the comments I received a few posts ago..sumfin about my writing being different..It's perhaps less filled with fluff? Or perhaps the piccies make it seem more fake...lol..that's a possibility as well..I guess that's what happens when one tries to force art out've oneself when one is not inclined. Or maybe it's the content..perhaps its a little less chirpy than before? I wouldn't know..lol..infact, I didn't even notice, until it was pointed out to me. But now that my curiousity is piqued, I'm so very very curious! Brilliance lies in isolation..I have seen the madman, the genius.. I can feel his hard yellow teeth..his burning eyes are all too familiar. The darker aspects of the human nature..I am beginning to get a clue about them ... I'm sure its nothing new for anyone really..we all do have our moments in time and space. I came close to visiting the room of Edgar Allan Poe once...I had gone to that university for a debate tournament, back when I was on the debate team in high school. I didn't end up visiting it, and a friend and I explored the town, and its bookshops and went into a retro styled Long John Silver's resturant..lol..was fun, with its pirate bells and all, and the Beach Boys songs playing in the background. Yep, we got free Lindt chocolates as we strolled, and ended up at a book signing event as well..though I'd never heard of the author. I wonder though, if I had visited Poe's room instead, would my life have been different? Would I have experienced a moment of epiphany there and then, as a sixteen year old? My epiphany came much later..at 22..I've seen the dark truth behind human existence..I should have liked to say it is beautiful, but it is not. Fascinating, nonetheless. I am glad the life forces are somewhat on my side..my thought processes automatically restrain the 'essence'. Nature is terrifying. Mother Nature? My ass!

To the Surrealiste

2005-12-07T19:44:00.000-08:00

When I search within myself, I realize that the urge to procrastinate, to avoid the future, instead of welcoming it..that is what causes me to cling desperately to the past that makes me cringe. Why do we do this? Perhaps not 'we'..I'm aware of the dangers of generalization..why do 'I' do this? Will looking to the future make the past go away? I'm sure the memories will remain, but the greater part of one's energies shall be spent on something progressive. Who am I trying to convince? Who am I writing this for? Essentially, for myself...I'm not sure if I'm trying to sort out thoughts here...I just realized..words appear to be coming from authority when they're written..even here, as I read my own typing, my own written words seem to take on a voice of authority...damnit..this is just makin me procrastinate more.
Damn it all. Loll..I wonder..do zodiacs determine, to any extent, a person's characteristics?
I succeeded in making myself dizzy today. There are always alternatives.

The Angels of the Desert

2005-11-13T14:24:00.000-08:00

I dream of a beautiful dry desert which is the realm of Desert Angels. They're not graceful like the angels in heaven. They're thin, nearing anorexia. They feed on vultures. Yes, they have fangs, with which they tear apart the vulture carcasses. And the vulture talons, they fashion into jewellery..beautiful bloody-claw pendants. They sleep with a smile on their faces. It was they who tried to save Babylon as it was falling. It was they who wailed out loud when Sodom and Gomorrah were burning. It was they who tried to save man from the wrath of the Creator. For that, they paid the eternal price. Ugliness. They sleep on the desert sand, with the wind blowing loose sand across their corpse-like forms.

-Just some premises for a novella I'm working on, which will probably bring together these concepts along with the Arc of the Iscariot (in my old blog).