After the insistence of a dear friend of mine, I gave in and decided to watch Ingmar Bergman’s ‘The Seventh Seal’. I have always had my doubts about black-and-white movies, but recently, realizing the lack of content in many contemporary movies, I started to try watching older films, just to see what makes them ‘great’.
The Seventh Seal stroke me as a masterpiece, not just in the time it was made, but even in our day. Bergman adapted it to the screen from a play that he wrote earlier (I later read), which explains the solid content and order of events. The story of the protagonist Antonius Block is nothing short for intriguing, with the haze of Medieval knighthood that surrounds it, added to the daring questions it asks and the bold approach towards faith, life and religion.
Coming back from the crusades, Block realizes a spiritual crisis upon which the beliefs he blindly followed before embarking on his journey are jeopardized.  The crisis raises numerous questions that threaten the stability a man’s faith. Block suddenly sees the incongruity and contradiction, and he starts to question and wonder.
The personification of Death, a technique that’s been used during the Elizabethan era and is almost reminiscent of works of great dramatists such as Shakespeare and Marlowe. The tight structure of the plot makes the plotline easy to follow. The cycle of events is fitting to the duration of the movie, and the well-developed characters (not just Block and Death, but almost all characters in the movie) all help in creating a convincing Medieval portrait of life.

So much for my attempt to review a movie … I lost my mojo!

PS: How does one sigh on paper?

This sky is really not a sky, but a blanket of shade that’s covering eternal flames that are great — so great and fierce they pierce the sky where stars are torched — and every morning, the whole thing catches fire.

After the sun is fully submerged in the vast blue ocean, the moon climbs up, a cold-hearted bitch that doesn’t give a toss — a fuck, really, about the dying child molester, dying alone in his room.
Or the mother, hysterical, in tears, with her hair pulled off her scalp except for where it appears in tufts, caked with blood.
Or the little children whose angelic voices have grown hoarse from crying of thirst and hunger and pain, whose hymns have become dirges and moans, unheard, unattended.

The moon remains in its position, coldly peering down at its domain
Enjoying the show, darling?

**********

Cracking eggs: almost a parable.

An old poor man once complained to God. He said he is losing himself in bits and pieces with every passing day. Indeed, his skin was falling off, dried patches of dead skin. His teeth have fallen off his gums, except for two molars. He could barely afford the rags to cover himself. What he asked God was simpe: food.

The next day, the man cracks an egg and mixes it with a fork in a glass. He drinks it, not noticing for one second how God gives up one life for another.

As soon as she sits the lights are hushed. Words echo in the air, a dirge, a diabolical hymn, a terrifying electricity fills the air gradually, gradually gaining momentum until it becomes so strong. Jolting. Staggering. Astounding. That’s when the words start failing to float in the air. They fall on the floor, heavy metallic objects. They thickly clink and clank. They bang on the walls of her head, immobilising her every thought. She becomes a living cluster of dumb numbness. Motionless except for occasional rigid jerks of dread and fright that creep into the air she breathes, the air that fills the room where she sits.

Next to her, an old woman pats her on the back. Well done.

Imagine you are lying on your bed, your head is numb with pain, your body temperature nearly the same as the weather outside and in your hands you are holding a book. You try to read, but the letters swim and swirl, swoosh back and forth, causing your head more pain.
What’s putting you in all this misery is a very tiny microbe that succeeded in invading the privacy of your mouth – yes, it penetrated your lips, swam over your tongue and attacked the two little masses of lymphatic tissue called your tonsils. These weaklings, who presumably have a defensive role in your body, get infected by the tiny bacteria and start to cause you indescribable pain. The soreness of your throat makes it nearly impossible for you to swallow. So you stay in bed, miserable, feverish, hiding under two or three blankets, drenched in sweat.

What causes tonsillitis?
The causes of tonsillitis are either bacterial or viral. Transferred through social contact, you can get tonsillitis via a handshake or a hug. The person might be oblivious to the fact that they are infected and transmitting the wicked tonsils infection to you.
Another endangering type of people is sneezy people. You know the kind of person who would come into your room or office to tell you about how their day is, how they hate having a sore throat and how they can’t eat well, can’t sleep well, then ACHOO! And congratulations, you have a hyper, very active virus swimming in the air of your room, waiting for you to open your mouth so it can invade your throat and inflame your tonsils.
An ear, throat and nose doctor said that tonsillitis is an all-year long occurrence, though the number of patients rises slightly during autumn and winter.

How do you cope?
Ask a survivor. Your tonsils will get back to functioning normally – after starving and dehydrating you, and giving you a few sleepless nights – but you need to do certain things. The first step is to get antibiotics. Second is, keep drinking fluids. You’ll probably need to buy your own supply of juice. Keep a stack in your room so that it would stay room-temperature, and drink. The point is to keep your body from dehydration.
Keep away from spicy food. Yes, this means no Zinger Supreme from KFC, definitely no Indian food, no Chinese pungent chicken. Be easy on your throat; try to have soft food until the infection is cured.
Chamomile tea is the most famous home-remedy for throat infection. In Grandma philosophy, it helps reduce the swelling of the throat and soothes the pain. It might not be very effective – I personally do not like the taste of chamomile, nor the sound of it, but that’s just me – but it’s worth giving a try if you are one of those people who believe in the powers of Mother Nature. It is worth mentioning that as you prepare the drink, do not think of it as mere chamomile tea. Think of it as an infusion of dried, crushed chamomile flowers picked from ever-green fields. That should please Mother Nature and do the trick. If all fails to help, then you my friend are a desperate case. See your doctor to discuss the possibility of …

Tonsillectomy: A free ticket to ice-cream!
Usually your doctor will decide to remove your tonsils if you bother him every other week with a complaint about sore throat. The procedure is said to be very simple. I personally have not tried it, but will be very soon. (Yes, hence this article.) The good thing about tonsillectomy is this: you will never have a sore throat again. So kiss your Strepsils and lozenges good-bye, you’re moving to a new chapter of your life in which they have no existence.
Most doctors prefer to perform this operation during the wintertime, in belief that the wound will not heal fast enough if it was summer. Dr. A. Al-Fares believes that this is a doctor’s personal choice. Surgeons, however, perform the operation all year long.
The fun starts after having a tonsillectomy. Ice-cream becomes the main course for the first week following a tonsillectomy. Ice cream soothes the pain of the wound in your throat and helps you get better faster. So as your family have their usual dinner, as they munch on what you can get to call ‘boring food’, now that your tonsil-free, you can have your little tub of ice cream and start digging in it with your spoon.
Haidar Bahman, a 19-year old who had his tonsils removed two years ago spoke of the dangers of having a tonsillectomy. “You can’t control the food in your mouth! You don’t enjoy the taste! You just put the food in your mouth and it slips down into your stomach!” says Haidar in horror. Whether Haidar is a unique case, or whether that is the case with every person who have had their tonsils removed is obscure for now. I will personally find out next week.

The first thing you do is pray. But brush your teeth before that, so God doesn’t suffocate by your morning breath.

Drink water before eating your breakfast. Two glasses. Don’t eat white bread. No butter; that’s pure fat. No cheese; it’s all reprocessed and is nothing like real cheese. No strawberry jam; it will give you skin rash. No starchy cereal. No coffee; that’s just ground tar mixed with water.

This is your mother sipping her tea. That’s your sister who is bound to become a whore, what with all the perfume and make up she wears and the gradual shrinking of her skirt with each passing day.
That’s your school. This is the kid who always sits in the front, who answers all the questions and always gets all the praise. Look at how he kisses his father’s cheek before he leaves the car. He carries a lunch-box.
This is your teacher who has a birthmark on his thigh. Here he is, parking his car that looks exactly like Dad’s car, except that it has lots of tissues thrown all over, and smells like birthmarks on thighs. 
Take your seat. This is the teacher who flunked your older brother seven years ago. You wonder if he can make the connection between you and him. You hope that he doesn’t. Avoid looking him in the eye.
Don’t eat from the canteen in recess. Don’t eat at all if you can help it, you’re as fat as a baby elephant as it is. Hang out with the nice kids. Stay away from the cool ones; you’re not as cool, don’t try to compete. Stay away from the nerds, they do weird things like talk about homework and share their lunch-box food. Stay with the nice ones but don’t cling too much, so they won’t realize that you actually don’t fit in. Talk to them about anything, but don’t tell jokes because your jokes are not funny. Don’t talk to them about your sister who is bound to become a whore what with all the perfume and make up she wears and the gradual shrinking of her skirt with each passing day. Nor about the teacher who has a birthmark on his thigh, nor about how his car looks like Dad’s car, except that it has lots of tissues thrown all over and smells like birthmarks on thighs. Nor about the time Mom put all Dad’s clothes in the kitchen oven and your kitchen almost caught fire.
When it’s prayer time and your teacher takes your whole class to the little mosque that smells like socks and sweat, try to stay in the bathroom so you won’t be embarrassed by how you pray different than they do. If you can’t escape, try to imitate the boys next to you. Do what they do exactly. And don’t wonder why you pray differently at home.
In P. E. class, avoid your teacher who has a birthmark on his thigh with the car that looks like Dad’s by pretending to be indulged in the soccer game your colleagues play, even though you look like an idiot running in the field around the ball, what with your looking like a baby elephant and all. And pray that he doesn’t call your name and asks to go see him in his office. But you didn’t pray in the mosque that smells like socks and sweat, because you pray differently and this could be God’s way of punishing you for suffocating him by your morning breath when you prayed in the morning.
Brush your teeth.
Pray on time.
Stay away from starchy food and strawberries.
Don’t talk about your sister who is bound to be a whore. Nor about your mother smoking cigarettes in the kitchen and putting all your Dad’s clothes in the oven. Nor about the teacher nor about his car.
Don’t talk at all in fact. Don’ talk at all.