"Wading neck deep in a swamp, your revolver is neither use nor ornament until you have had time to clean it" Mary H. Kingsley (1897)

stars

Christmas Blues

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In Fort Cochin


Music Of The Spheres

Walking home yesterday just after sunset, it was difficult to keep my eyes from the intriguing little dance which Jupiter, Venus and our moon are performing:

Evening temperatures are a gentle 28° C. (82° F.)
I didn’t need a coat!
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Picture taken from my front yard, around 7 pm.
Music clip features the theme tune of The Sky at Night, a documentary series which has run since 1957 on BBC Television .


Shooting Stars

The film crew are still busy at our local faux café.
Yesterday, I passed by to see how the shoot was going.

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To my surprise, this outsider with his camera was warmly welcomed.
Film crew moved aside to give me better views;
Krishna, a young starlet, broke off conversations with his team of technicians, so that I could take a picture:


I am told the movie’s working title is “Film Company”.
It comes from a team involved in one of last year’s critically acclaimed, but financially unsuccessful, local productions:
Kerala Café
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Pictures taken in Fort Cochin.


Stars In Waiting

 

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Star Gazing

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A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times when we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,

And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,

And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty and charging high prices:

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

 

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;

With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness,

And three trees on the low sky,

And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,

Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wineskins.

But there was no information, and so we continued

And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon

Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

 

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we led all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.

Journey of the Magi   T.S. Eliot

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