Skip to main content

Frank Sinatra, "A Foggy Day"



* Frank Sinatra's songs are widely welcomed by any occasions. They are like puddings, with various different toppings.

Some become broody in their early teens,
I took it further by pining for a life as a hermit.
As my age progressed,
the hankering only got more severe instead of blurring away on a blotting paper.
How the social scene has steered to the vulgarity plays a crucial role in consolidating my dream.
It is as if the whole place was turned into a massive barhouse,
the most outlandish and unwelcomed ones belonged to those who steeled themselves on their sobriety.
The desperate measures those heartbroken ones took to leave their beloved home,

and transported themselves to another place where they still succumbed to supreme drunkenness.
Being hemmed in an overwhelming scale of grimness and solitude,
they sozzled.

I appreciate shirking the work of being a submissive recipient of news for a day or two,
but my equanimity can only withhold a short while before I pucker my nose again to snoop for fuzziness.
It is as if a furnace could never sustain its unlikely renovation into an icehouse.
It would squeak, or sometimes, implode with complaints.

The fire in my heart spurs me on;
it also terminates the surreptitious path to a flinching reclusive life.
The aforesaid is not some paragon for some self-edifying cause,
but a rather firm declaration:
that a cat can never exude her prowess,
until she catches a mouse and claim the victory.

Until then,
all the mice must watch their backs.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"My tale is done. There runs a mouse: whoever catches her may make a great, great cap out of her fur."- Brothers Grimm, Hansel and Grethel

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Honore Daumier

“If you shut up truth and bury it under ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.”- Émile Zola
Exited HonorĂ© Victorin Daumier, 10 February 1879, in an impoverishment that many of his contemporaries, especially his foes, would have thought was his long overdue retribution- the painter was blind, heavily in debt, and later relegated to a pauper’s grave. His friends, upon visiting his resting place, would, I imagine, see it a chance to admonish their children: “Now that’s a lesson for you cheeky devils whose tongues rattle off things that should better stay unspoken.” But Daumier devoted his life in revealing those “unspoken things.” His lithography ink proved sharper than most writers’ pens. He vented his rage and stigmatised others’ infamy in his satirical and, oftentimes, side-splitting cartoons. The tone was relentlessly acerbic but only because Daumier was exposing truths that, in the time…

Review: Late Spring (1949)

As a storyteller, Yasujiro Ozu insists on an implausibly objective stance that refrains from direct commentary or criticism; his camera customarily assumes the role of a detached observer, to whom the characters in the film, staring or talking straight to the camera, occasionally address, with an intimacy akin to that between a host and his guest, a closeness that is underpinned by a mutual recognition of the psychological distance that separates the two. The audience, whose perspective, in this case, conflates the camera’s (the director’s), an invisible character’s in the film (to whom the other characters address) and their own, is thus situated amidst this spatial complexity which, as a rule, every work of art necessarily creates.
In Late Spring (1948), the camera serves in part as an underlying comment to the story, which is noted by its economy of details. A prolonged shot of a departing train, on which the father and daughter travel to the city for a one-day excursion, prefigures…

Review: Breathless (1960)

Jean Luc Godard’s first feature feels oddly like a swansong: in many respects the film seems a self-mockery of what it ostensibly celebrates – the new, the bold, the reckless; the 60s zeitgeist that resurrects the anguished ghosts of the 1920s, who, according to F. Scott Fitzgerald, grow up to “find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faith in man shaken.” For the children of the ‘60s, their wars are of a kind in which the opponents constantly change roles: sometimes they are the unmerciful authorities bent on making miserable lives out of their inferiors; in other times they are the society at large, weeding out in its insidious and devious way the errant law-breakers. They all seem to be donning the same masks, through which the warriors recognise themselves.
This fight with one’s inner demon necessarily evokes concerns of mortality and death - timeless concerns that acquire an added pungency in the 1960s: would a dangerous, unheeding spell of hedonism finally defy life’s incontrove…