gragkivtas

[gragkivtas]

Finally watched Tarantino's 'Django Unchained' and I think the line,

"If I made you an offer so ridiculous, you'd be forced to consider it"

Is so much more real than the good old classic line

"I made him an offer he couldn't refuse"

from 'The Godfather (1972)'

Well because the former respects (and in the context of the film, pretends to respect) the choice of the individual being offered the 'ridiculous offer'.

However the latter, given the dominant nature of the dialogue makes it 'fire' and rendered as the classic masterpiece of a poetry that it is.

Now, at this point in time, I am quite impressed by Tarantino's film (who isn't), so the upper statements might or might not hold up with me in the future.

All I mean to say is, I'm quite inspired by films lately.

[gragkivtas]

And suddenly so much of this feels like a possibility that I might just share what I write.

There is much to be said about words in translation, where language ceases to function in its own right and becomes music, we begin to call it poetry. It is one thing to write about that one particular interest we may have in this little life, but what about all interests and all likenesses, speculations and moments which ceased to exist before they could be fully lived.

Here, it is, the new way of writing letters, which are not handwritten this time, (although if you want me to send you a handwritten letter, I would gladly oblige to that request). Some letters which find themselves lost in the enigma of labyrinths of this physical world, might be excavated, like letters of Van Gogh or Camus, or Anaïs Nin, or any other great or banal people. But things written here, I hope will stand the test of time, now that time is measured by not ticks of the clock-hands but zeroes and ones. This is mine, purely written for my own dreamlike unreality, phasing in and out of thought and lucidity, finding inhuman beauty and uncanny oblivion in the everyday.

– Satvik Garg

THE STUDIO OF GRAGKIVTAS

Read more on my blog @ https://gragkivtas.co.in/word-blog-by-satvik-garg/

[gragkivtas]

I am in a time crunch with multiple deadlines but I decided to create an account on tumblr, see what all the fuss is about…

There is much to be said about words in translation, where language ceases to function in its own right and becomes music, we begin to call it poetry. It is one thing to write about that one particular interest we may have in this little life, but what about all interests and all likenesses, speculations and moments which ceased to exist before they could be fully lived.

Here, it is, the new way of writing letters, which are not handwritten this time, (although if you want me to send you a handwritten letter, I would gladly oblige to that request). Some letters which find themselves lost in the enigma of labyrinths of this physical world, might be excavated, like letters of Van Gogh or Camus, or Anaïs Nin, or any other great or banal people. But things written here, I hope will stand the test of time, now that time is measured by not ticks of the clock-hands but zeroes and ones. This is mine, purely written for my own dreamlike unreality, phasing in and out of thought and lucidity, finding inhuman beauty and uncanny oblivion in the everyday.

– Satvik Garg

THE STUDIO OF GRAGKIVTAS

Read more on my blog @ https://gragkivtas.co.in/word-blog-by-satvik-garg/

[gragkivtas]

There is much to be said about words in translation, where language ceases to function in its own right and becomes music, we begin to call it poetry. It is one thing to write about that one particular interest we may have in this little life, but what about all interests and all likenesses, speculations and moments which ceased to exist before they could be fully lived.

Here, it is, the new way of writing letters, which are not handwritten this time, (although if you want me to send you a handwritten letter, I would gladly oblige to that request). Some letters which find themselves lost in the enigma of labyrinths of this physical world, might be excavated, like letters of Van Gogh or Camus, or Anaïs Nin, or any other great or banal people. But things written here, I hope will stand the test of time, now that time is measured by not ticks of the clock-hands but zeroes and ones. This is mine, purely written for my own dreamlike unreality, phasing in and out of thought and lucidity, finding inhuman beauty and uncanny oblivion in the everyday.

– Satvik Garg

THE STUDIO OF GRAGKIVTAS

Read more on my blog @ https://gragkivtas.co.in/word-blog-by-satvik-garg/