Alex Smith

1.58 AM Thursday Morning 16th July, House Brink, Cat Sitting

Refreshing, but anything more than half silent would be apocalyptic. Somebody’s got to speak or sing or make music – there’s a whole catalogue of silences, and one for speaking too and music is a kind of speaking – dancing to silence would be pretty bleak, pathetic really, especially if we’re (and I sure am) going to take the Sheep Man’s advice and dancelikeyourlifedependedonit … in all the cold I left the radio on and the electric blanket at high, wake up in a sweat and have that epiphany of sorts, which somehow seems worth noting down, hehe, but I disturb the cat, who runs away and afterwards I read a few more chapters of Dance Dance Dance. It’s a while before I’m falling asleep again, which is awkward because Lilly Allen is singing loudly from the next room the song with the refrain ‘You never make me scream’ and the banjo is playing and I remember re the catalogue of silences some words on a sign in Tuol Sleng, instruction #7 to prisoners: Do nothing, sit still and wait my orders. If no order, sit still, be quiet. When I ask you to do something do it immediately without protesting… genocide loves silence … So Lilly’s singing and I start seeing the faces of the prisoners. A photograph was taken of every soul as they entered the prison they’d never leave, and as if that isn’t sadness enough, next I see a postcard I bought yesterday at the Cape Town Holocaust Centre, ‘Jews of Bedzin, Poland’. The card is full of faces, about a hundred and eighty men, women, children …that takes me back to the grey dogs, with yellow eyes, the dogs at the start of Waltz With Bashir, an animated documentary about 1982’s Lebanon war. I went to that on Tuesday night … this is no good for sleep … I must sleep, it’s getting on to four, but there’s a distinct lack of silence in my head … I’m back to the catalogue of silences and instead of counting sheep I start to make a catalogue of silences.

Catalogue of Silences:

A
Alla Nazimova Silence – graceful, the silence of movies before sound; Anxious Silence – I admire you so I’m not sure what to say, nervous, out of my depth, I can’t be myself, it’s not good enough; Apocalyptic Silence – when the balance of all things and silence too, tips beyond repair, it’s a universe ending silence, the inverse opposite of the Big Bang; Anorexic Silence – You starve instead of speaking and grow thin of it.
B
Beat Silence – Harold Pinter’s kind of silence; Bleak Silence – it’s the silence of a bedsit in Earls Court or Kennilworth, in it one old man or woman, who is alone on Christmas eating a tin of tuna; Bland Silence – the relationship isn’t working, you can’t even bother to speak anymore, you’re at an over-familiar restaurant, both eating what you always order, Beautiful Silence – of desert, the red dunes in Namibia, it’s the silence of grand spaces, plains, canyons, endless roads from Cape Town to Cairo; Bitch Silence – a mildish form occurs amongst teenage girls, but the worst kind of Bitch Silence is that manipulative silence from a woman who separates a child from a good father in order to force the man to give her money or simply in order to make him suffer. Bar Brawl Silence – very wisely, you don’t want to get hurt for no reason, so you step back and stay silent
C
Cold Silence – the silence between the grave and hell, limbo; Cruel Silence – you could spare a person some sadness by speaking and it would cost you nothing, but being silent gives you a sense of power; Coward’s Silence – you should speak out against some great or small atrocity, but you prefer to save your skin; Comic Silence – that’s about timing; Cat’s Silence – the way they move.
D
Devil’s Silence (Diabolus Silentium) – silent only for the sake of argument or something like that; Don’t Call Us We’ll Call You Silence – nobody calls and the silence makes you feel worthless and you wonder if you made the right choices, but you’ll get over it; Drinkers’ Silence – a bonding silence over a drink; Dark Silence – it’s about depression, a chemically induced silence, very hard to shake until its shaken and when shaken it seems hard to imagine ever feeling so dark
E
Elegant Silence – when there is expression and motion, but no speech, ballet, mime, tango and any time Audrey Hepburn pauses to smoke or just to look; Expedient Silence – the bean-counter’s silence, prudent, self-interested; Eternal Silence – it goes to the stars; Elusive Silence – two people, you’re in a confined space, like a marriage or a car, and all you want is some peace, but the other person keeps talking, Elusive Silence can lead to madness or murder, humour is the only cure.
F
Fool’s Silence – like fool’s gold, it seems beautiful and valuable, but it’s not; Fulsome Silence – content, it’s when somebody you thought you’d lost returns; Fear’s Silence – Sure, it can lead to terrible calamities, but the heart crushed by fear, must be forgiven, because fear’s the impossible enemy, none survive.
G
Grotesque Silence – the silence after genocide, the silence of concentration camps and gas chambers; Great Silence – not good, it’s the end of creativity, writer’s block or even the extremely conservative silence of religions that forbid dancing, or other art; Genuine Silence – when there really is nothing to say, it is perfectly acceptable to choose silence over meaningless chatter or something worse like self-congratulatory banter
H Handsome Silence – particularly in men, particularly in relation to women, a man who knows he has no interest in a woman, and so cuts contact in order not to lead her on, even though it would profit his ego immensely to have the occasional adoring message; handsome silence is the next best option if he has already provided a generous rejection, an honest, but kind, ‘no’ and still the lovelorn woman cannot let him beHellish Silence – waiting to hear; Heartless Silence – unlike cruel silence, the heartless silence is not with malice, simply lack of heart, a genuine affliction, the heartless silent has either as a result of drug use or syndrome, such as Aspergers, no capacity to understand how their silence hurts others
I Iconic Silence – not an especially compassionate silence, a person of elevated stature chooses silence as a form of power, it makes them unapproachable, and enhances their mystique; Internal Silence – it does not exist in life, even with meditation all thoughts cannot be stilled, even a brain with no conscious thoughts is not silent until death.
J
Japanese Silence – suicide, when it is about saving face, preserving honour, and tradition
K
Killing Silence – in relationships, not talking it out, allowing something to fester until it becomes a poison; King’s Silence – execution, named for Henry, but can apply to all manner of tyrants, it is the silencing of opposition in any form be it a wife you no longer want, or a person you deem a threat to your rule
L
Lazy Silence – You could say something, but you just can’t be bothered; Lugubrious Silence – broody and morose, potentially operatic; Lardy Silence – You eat instead of speaking and grow fat of it.
M
Miser’s Silence – the man who thinks himself too good to speak, hordes up his words and thoughts like scrooge … for what Miser? Words are no currency to the dead, soon you will have no mouth to speak, no fingers to write with, and there will be no listeners or readers.
N
Noisy Silence – You’re in a crowd, but nobody is speaking to you, you’re the loner on the fringes, it can even be at a cocktail party, and you can be speaking pleasantries, but saying nothing, so it is the silence of vacant words ; Noble Silence – Not speaking in order to find the peace of not thinking
O
Ostracizing Silence – group cruelty, the tall poppy’s untimely end, you were so brilliant and successful, people were always jealous, and when you fell from grace, the group exiled you, and they relished it
P
Predatory Silence – a killer watching his, her, its prey; Patient Silence – a parent or teacher allowing a child to do something for themselves even though it’s taking time; Profiteer’s Silence – you know something, but say nothing, or get paid to say nothing, inside information, inside trading, deceit, blackmail, you get rich on this silence; Political Silence – it’s all about correctness and keeping your position in the court; Philosophical Silence – the result of excessive thought; Pleasant Silence – when you are so comfortable with a companion you do not have to speak; Plotter’s Silence – a person chooses not to speak yet, they’re biding their time, plotting a best strategy, possibly waiting for more information before committing themselves to a voiced opinion
Q
Quincunxical Silence – in a petty matter, this is a very awkward silence, like on the dice you are the dot in the middle of the other four, and no matter what you say somebody is going to get hurt, somebody is going to get angry, all pointlessly, so you absent yourself and say nothing
R
Readers Silence – a very fine silence punctuated with the sound of turning pages.
S
Sleeper’s Silence – can be so compelling like Eri Asai in After Dark, it’s visible silence, you want to watch; Sulker’s Silence – as long as it doesn’t go on too long, it’s okay, and best to let the sulker sulk (excessive Sulker’s Silence is pathological); Shotgun Silence – an old fashioned kind with a long history, like at shotgun weddings, and nobody wanted to say the bride was pregnant, but nowadays, this kind of silence covers all manner of social embarrassments, which are only embarrassments because of the way certain (often uptight or petty) people look at them
T
Toothsome Silence – when food is so tasty a party of eaters falls into this silence as they eat, until somebody remembers to speak again. Usually the first words uttered after Toothsome Silence are in praise of the meal; Thinkers Silence – admirable, but if it lasts too long it can be anti-social
U
Unhandsome Silence – particularly in men, and especially in relation to vulnerable women, this is a kind of Coward Silence, the man who misleads, leads on purely for the benefit of his little ego; he should just say with generosity:no.
V
Virtuous Silence – overrated; Victim’s Silence – one of the most tragic silences, prevalent among women and children
W
Writer’s Silence/ Worker’s Silence – when you refuse to answer the phone or speak to anyone because you’re writing/ working; Weird Silence – like on the sixteenth floor at the Dolphin Hotel in Dance Dance Dance; Wishful Silence – perhaps the most exquisite of all silences: you’re seeing or experiencing something so breathtaking, there are no words for its loveliness, and all you can do is wish it could go it go on forever, but know it will vanish, and the most important thing is not to panic over the transience, for panic may spoil the Wishful Silence
X –
X Out Silence – the silence of adead man after a contract killing, the mobster’s kind of silence
Y
Yawning Silence – the silence of the unemployed or burnt out, you stay home and stare at a something for extended periods of time because there is nothing else you can do; Your Silence – in human relationships, when one person is silent and another doesn’t understand why, but accepts with silence their silence, the only decent way of respecting the other person’s reasons, so acknowledging the other’s battle, in the sense that everybody is fighting a battle, it is a forgiving silence
Z
Zane Grey Silence – It’s the silence of the old trapper – ‘a far-seeing eye cleared by distance and silence, and the force of the great, lonely hills’, it’s the silence of one who knew ‘progress was great, but nature unspoiled was greater.’ Zealots’ Silence – usually a group silence, among those who cannot question, and take it all on faith, and will kill to silence anyone who disagrees.

Whereas in the other countries I have visited, people, travellers, especially those women travellers alone, are often to be found in restaurants occupied with the business of writing in journals, and that usually goes for me too, in Iran I did not see a single woman traveller writing notes in a journal, and in fact I don’t recall ever seeing a woman traveller sitting alone in a restaurant. The first few times I went down for hotel breakfast, people stared, the waiters seemed not to know where to put me, and eventually I opted for room service, for my comfort and the comfort of those who found my presence so disturbing. In my foolish naivety, when I went on that road trip through Iran, even knowing the history and the contentious laws of the land, it did not occur to me a woman travelling alone was taboo, perhaps because it is a freedom I take so for granted, like it is oxygen. This ignorance was a lucky bliss, because otherwise I would not have had the chance to visit one of the most beautiful countries in the world, a country of almost unparalleled historical and cultural significance to humanity. I would not have had the chance because although it was the cheapest of places to tour through, none of my friends wanted to visit Iran, and some people in my family generally inclined to exaggeration, even said I would not come back alive. By good fate, bureaucratic delays regarding a visa resulted in a missed flight, and my journey to Iran was delayed two weeks, which meant I did return alive. Had I left when planned, according to my road trip schedule I would have been in the ancient mud city of Bam at the time of an earthquake few survived. Bam was reduced to dust, forty thousand people died, but I was still in Cape Town. It was chilling though to see pictures in the papers and think I should have been there.

Two weeks later, against my father’s best wishes, I arrived in the middle of the night in Tehran. Some minutes before landing, all the women in the plane began to put on their black headscarves, and wipe off their lipstick, and I admit, I felt a nervous, especially because according to my cell phone contract and type, my phone did not work in Iran, so I was to be there for a month, completely out of contact. It was winter, and when I walked across the tarmac to the airport, I saw a mountain covered in snow and shining in the moonlight, and I knew everything would be fine, that I would have safe trip.

Then again, in the airport, passport control was daunting, and I remembered my father asking: “Are you mad? Why on earth, must you go there?”

My reason came to be that I wanted to see the country for myself because I was tired of the very specific view I got on CNN and such channels, but in truth, my original reason was far more whimsical. I had been living in Stellenbosch in a labourer’s cottage on a rose farm that stood to left of a strawberry farm and below a wine farm. Though thin-walled and cold, it was the perfect place to write, and for only R1000 a month I had three tiny rooms, bookshelves, electricity, hot water, peace and a view of the vines from my desk. Somewhere in another country was a man I loved and I thought he loved me back until the end of one long-distance telephone call. It had been a good and unusually lengthy conversation, but finally he had to tell me what he’d probably been wondering how to say throughout: he was going to the Caribbean, sailing, that coming December, and he was taking another woman, his new girlfriend.

Very well, I thought, sod it, I will not be crushed, if he is having an adventure this December, so will I. At the time, I had more books than shelves, so many books were still in boxes. At the top of one box were old school books, including a standard-issue Good News Bible. I took it out, and thought, I’ll close my eyes, turn to any page and point and where my finger lands, that is where I’ll go. Well it landed in the Book of Esther, right there in chapter one, where it says: At that time King Xerxes reigned from his royal throne in the citadel of Susa, and in the third year of his reign he gave a banquet for all his nobles and officials. The military leaders of Persia and Media, the princes, and the nobles of the provinces were present. For a full 180 days he displayed the vast wealth of his kingdom and the splendor and glory of his majesty. . When these days were over, the king gave a banquet, lasting seven days, in the enclosed garden of the king’s palace, for all the people from the least to the greatest, who were in the citadel of Susa. The garden had hangings of white and blue linen, fastened with cords of white linen and purple material to silver rings on marble pillars. There were couches of gold and silver on a mosaic pavement of porphyry, marble, mother-of-pearl and other costly stones. Wine was served in goblets of gold, each one different from the other, and the royal wine was abundant…”

Splendid, I thought what fine place to visit, I’ll go to Susa, to Xerxes, Emperor of Persia’s palace. I wasn’t sure exactly what Persia would mean this century, some few thousand years later, but as it turned out, Susa was in Iran, very close to the border of Iraq. There was never any question of not going. I had to go to Xerxes palace. So began the preparations.

The blind choice was completely random and I didn’t think so much about the significance of Esther then, but now it seems there could not have been a more fitting book for my finger to find. Esther, the Empress, was a defiant woman, a brilliant woman, an elegant and courageous woman, a role model. Her name means star, and she led me to Iran.

Two extraordinary women of this age, but of utterly different backgrounds, and totally conflicting political views come together in Paris in exile in ‘The Queen and I’. They share one great commonality: their deep affection for a lost homeland, Iran. The women are Farah, Shabanou, Queen, Empress of Iran, and the documentary maker, former communist revolutionary, and anti-royalist Nahid Persson Sarvestani. Initially their interactions are uneasy, but as Nahid gets to know Farah, an unexpected and tentative friendship forms, her documentary develops ‘a mind of its own’ and Nahid, at a point says she has become ‘a Farah follower, but not a Royalist.’
Perhaps the most touching scene in the film is when a friend brings Farah a plant from Iran, and a bag of Iranian soil, and taking the soil in her hands, Farah is more happy than at any other time in all the footage.

Sadly, Sunday was the last screening of ‘The Queen and I’, but it is worth trying to find, and certainly worth visiting the Encounters homepage for schedules and details of the many other fantastic documentaries still showing.

One last thing I thought at the end of this remarkable documentary, was how fortunate I was to have visited Iran (and so too, how strange the loss of one love, led to the discovery of another, greater love: I’ve been in a four-year relationship with Iran ever since, working on a novel, which whether it turns out to be good or not, has meant I live with Iran ever on my mind).

—
In addition to the Queen and I, I’d highly recommend, We Are Iran, by Nasrin Alavi, a book of blogs, published by Portobello Books and available online from Portobello.

‘Alavi mines the rich seam of surreptitious scribbling in modern Iran to produce a powerful picture of popular feeling there. The defiant and optimistic voice that emerges is proudly Iranian, loves western films and scorns the backward, hate-filled religious minority whose rule the writers regard as illegitimate.’
The Sunday Times

‘Nasrin Alavi’s We Are Iran is a fascinating portrait of a young generation trying to reconcile its demand for individual rights with the official ideology of political Islam.’
Pankaj Mishra, New Statesman, Books of the Year, 28 Nov 05

‘This is not the first example of a book made out of blogs… It does, I think, count as the finest so far: an eye-opening collage of extracts from the (roughly) 64,000 Farsi-language bloggers now at work in Iran, threaded by Alavi’s illuminating analysis. Alavi’s theme-by-theme compilation, with the background filled in by her expert commentary, adds up to a vibrant portrait of a dynamic but thwarted nation… Alavi deserves to attract an audience far wider than the usual specialist readership for works on Middle Eastern affairs.’
Boyd Tonkin, Independent

‘In despotic countries, bloggers have become the new enemy and the new martyrs. One of the most startling and informative books recently published is We Are Iran, the translated voices of witty, fierce, optimistic young Iranian web diarists.’

Yasmin Alibhai-Brown

“No one will offer me a job poor enough for my acceptance!” said TE Lawrence who refused all manner of good, responsible posts, and wanting a more miserable kind of job applied to be a lighthouse keeper. I think, well, at least in dreams, that I’d like to be a lighthouse keeper too; as long as my lighthouse was well-stocked with tea (ah, and books, and also it must not be cold inside). When the bookshop was busy on Sunday, I happened upon a book of lighthouses of the world, and there was only one copy and I reserved it for myself … when the bookshop was quiet before closing last night, I browsed through the pages of lighthouses, and discovered the Green Point lighthouse offers guided tours. So there is one thing I hope to do this weekend, if the lighthouse is open for tours over Easter, and if not I will have to wait. The book only features a handful of South African lighthouses, but searching around here reveals at least fifty lighthouses in the country. In other parts of the world, while all the old lighthouses are too lovely, some modern lighthouses are quite startling, like the Faro de Punta Hidalgo in Tenerife. I would like to visit that too and others; perhaps one day I’ll do a world tour of lighthouses.
There was a thing written in the preface of that lighthouse book: ‘Here is where the society of man begins’, and this the author suggests is the message sent out in lighthouse white flashes. In the case of the Faro de Punta Hidalgo, that would be three white flashes every 16 s. 50 m, and in the case of the Green Point lighthouse, a white flash every 10 s. 16 m. In a similar way, and others too, fiction seems something of a lighthouse to me. So I’ve begun collecting novel lighthouses: (more…)

Kissing in World Literature, two more E’s in the A-Z.

Ethiopia – Ityop’iya

From The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears
by Dinaw Mengestu (winner of the Guardian First Book Award)

Joseph is short and stout like a tree stump. He has a large round face that looks like a moon pie. Kenneth used to tell him he looked Ghanaian.
“You have a typical Ghanaian face, Joe. Round eyes. Round face. Round nose. You’re Ghanaian through and through. Admit it, and let us move on.”
Joseph would stand up then and theatrically slam his fist onto the table, or into his palm, or against the wall. “I am from Zaire,” he would yell out. “And you are a ass.” Or, more recently, and in a much more subdued tone: “I am from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Next week, it may be something different. I admit that. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be from the Liberated Land of Laurent Kabila. But today, as far as I know, I am from the Democratic Republic of the Congo.”
Joseph kisses me once on each cheek after he takes his coat off.
“That’s my favorite thing about you Ethiopians,” he says. “You kiss each other on the cheeks all the time. It takes you hours to say hello and good-bye because you’re constantly kissing each other. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.”
Kenneth pours Joseph a scotch and the three of us raise our cups for a toast.

From Blue Daughter of the Red Sea
By Meti Birabiro

Esu’s body took the space beside mine on the sofabed. (more…)

Prince among days! Not only is it Library Week, but tomorrow is World Storytelling Day, which has its origins in Sweden’s Alla berattares dag, All storytellers day. So in honour of libraries and the storytellers whose books fill them, here is an anthology of novel libraries, beginning with some library memories from poet and lecturer of Literature at Makarere University, Susan Kiguli who has a PhD in English from The University of Leeds and an particular interest in Oral Poetry, Popular Song and Performance Theory. (more…)

There is no ode and there is also no body in bed next to me. But in the place of an ode here is a picture illustrating how in place of a body there are books. I need more space. Karina says I should not worry, that she once had a body of books in her bed too. This came up over tea and tiramisu at the Bloggers’ meeting at the Book Lounge tonight. All armchairs, sofas and velvet wingbacks were occupied and Johan had to bring out all the Book Lounge teapots. It was a full house of bloggers. Visiting researcher, poet and translator, Michela made the tiramisu, which was heartily enjoyed by Helen, Sarah, Karina, André, Tom and Colleen. Along with Invisible Earthquake (we saw it, and Helen cried), surfing, Knead at Surfer’s Corner, bears, horses, carrots and war, the subject of essays came up and André said one of the best essayists he ever encountered as a reader was a fellow, and I hope I wrote this down right, named Alpha of the Plough.

So here is a virtual book to add to the body:

PEBBLES ON THE SHORE by Alpha of the Plough
… collecting toys
And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge;
As children gathering pebbles on the shore

And here’s one pebble:

ON READING IN BED

Among the few legacies that my father left me was a great talent for sleeping. I think I can say, without boasting, that in a sleeping match I could do as well as any man. (more…)

If you are seeking beauty and light, prepare also for the dark—page 3, The Master’s Ruse

Above the barcode and ISBN 9781874915164 of Patricia Schonstein’s The Master’s Ruse is the unhelpful class word ‘Fiction’.

Now, bear with me, even if my descriptions appear at first disconnected, while I set in place various components critical to the structure of this tale…—page 4, The Master’s Ruse

Karina, among whose many talents is a serious one for writing fine literary criticism, has told me sternly and often that a good, professional reviewer should never assume, unless instructed by the author, that the author and the narrator or any character in a fiction are one or even similar; they are to be judged distinct and with objectivity. The second law in Reviewing101 with Karina is: a good reviewer should not use the space of a review to show off her opinions or skill; the review is about the book in question, not the word skills, prejudices, social habits, dietary preferences or philosophies of the reviewer. Unfortunately, I am about to fail Karina’s exam in Reviewing101.

This, together with the warring strength of the regime that still governs us, have had a tremendous impact on my psyche and writing.’—page 4 The Master’s Ruse

Last year, at a PEN meeting and luncheon, I sat one chair down from Patricia Schonstein. Everybody who has written a book in this country, whether it is published or unpublished, poetry or prose, in particular everyone who remains living here (does not, I mean, move overseas and become affiliated with a university there, but stays here at the far end of Africa, where there is less access) knows well what kind of struggles are involved in getting ‘out there’, even as far as on the shelves in the local bookshops; so to be published four times in many languages internationally is a major feat, one to be deeply respected. During the meal, I asked Patricia when her next novel was due out, and what she told me was both unnerving and inspiring. (more…)

At the 2007 Umuzi Showcase in Johannesburg, Kathryn White, aged 27, was the youngest of five featured writers on a daunting stage answering questions about a debut novel. That was where I met her. Barry Ronge was on the panel of literary reviewers and he seemed very taken with the premise of Kathryn’s novel, Emily Green and Me. I was too nervous to think straight, speak properly or listen well, but I do remember sitting with a pile of books, twiddling my pen, and overhearing an enthusiastic discussion between Barry Ronge and Kathryn at the signing afterwards, and I remember the fabric of Kathryn’s beautiful dress: vintage silky satin cream printed with polka dots in two shades of green. How I envied that dress! A year later after the end of the first half of the BookSA banquet, at a time past midnight in a flower bed in Kelvin, Kathryn and I had stopped to gather roses en route to Helen’s place for the second half of the banquet, and while we tugged the flowers off their bushes, I asked if she’d some day write something for the Love Africa Carnival. “Here it be,” Kathryn emailed at 20:36 tonight, “it is actually rather rough – but am going to leave it heavy and naive instead of rewriting it light.” She also instructed that ‘the line breaks are decided’, and because the breaks didn’t fit on the page properly I’ve saved it as a picture and scaled it down to fit.

It is Note of Affection #21 in the Love Africa Carnival. (more…)

Sigh. Grey is the colour of now and apparently compassion is the trend; thus spake Li Edelkoort, at the Design Indaba happening in Cape Town this week. To hear how we collectively cherish grey this year because it is so cordial a mix of black and white; it is Obama, Edelkoort says, he is the perfect shade of grey; to hear her say it in person though along with other illustrious speakers over ten, pardon, three days of lectures, costs five thousand Rand. I don’t have that, but I know a very fine old woman, a designer, who knows another very fine old woman, a bra-hanger-maker with half a factory in China and more than enough money to be guest at this Indaba and so, relayed via the designer, over fifteen rond’s worth of tea, I heard today that sitting around a table sharing a meal, communing, is the height of fashionable, and that yellow, Super Lemon, the awkward colour to wear, is second only to grey in stature at this minute. 10B is not a trend, but 10B is many other things, important and mysterious, occasionally confounding, even to the point of magic. 10B is a bra size for example, and I believe the ten converts to thirty-two by local standards. 10B is an apartment, with cheap 10 and B stuck on its door. You can click on door 10B to enter and it’s interesting inside there. In India, (more…)

Lend me your lips Bar Street
(more…)