I think that means movie hall. Or movie. Or it could just be made up.
My French is not very good I am afraid.
I was reading this poem called blue bird and its written by this bukowski and I liked it a lot.
I suppose the beauty in words lies in the different reactions they can cause. Fear and loathing and revulsion and love and happiness and anger and all those things whose magic would disappear if we were to assign them names.
Apparently the medium/method used to write affect what is written. The long, flowing words of ink which flow onto a piece of paper are very different from the cold and impersonal words that are shoved down a keyboard. They are different not only in shape and size and smell but in actual content as well.
It is a bit disconcerting to realise that the words which come out of your veins and through your hands are guided by things which you may not have even been aware of.
I want to make a radio show with made up personalities and tons of stupid jokes and a cranky RJ who, instead of being all cheery and boisterous, sits in the dark and mumbles something completely indecipherable every couple of minutes or so. My radio show would also have a talking krow with some serious attitude and an invisible bear with a lisp.
And it would have a sexually-confused autorickshaw driver and a midget with a really deep voice who has run away from the circus.
I think it would be a super duper hit.
There is finally going to be an indian movie which is based in calcutta (kahani). Cannot wait to see it.
I am really missing Calcutta right now. Perhaps it is because of the sudden cravings for momos or the fact that someone mentioned Tibetan Delight to me the other day or because I want to walk on those pummeled roads with the tram tracks running right through them and I want to stare at the beautiful houses and I want to hear the conductor slapping the sides of the bus and I want to taste the perfect jhaal mudi and I want to see the yellow taxis coughing and shivering in the cool, evening breeze.
I don’t know.