Hinterland

Deathly

2012-01-18T04:57:00.001-08:00

The full stops, the mind unveils a triangle, the moment is caught, then lost, the past comes back in circles, the deer stops to look, the face changes another time, the cigarette smoke is lost in the pendulums movement, the time has come to fight another disease, the moment is caught, then lost. Again...

Time

2011-09-19T04:24:00.000-07:00

Just as the second needle hits the number 5, time changes. But time is always changing, why should we stay the same, why should the world stay the same? Everything is undergoing a constant process of decay, everything is dying slowly, there is a moment in time when there is nothing but the thought of death. That moment can be now. Time's insignificance is the circumference of the present moment, it builds blocks of sanity into the everchanging insane mind, there are moments when death converts itself to life and a fresh new energy revitalises everything just like the sun did a few hours back.

Link

2011-09-13T03:49:00.000-07:00

Ashes turned pink
to let the heartache sink.
And in just a blink
what a world it is, I think...

2011-09-07T04:57:00.001-07:00

Hugs, kisses, cuddles,
Sun, moon, stars,
Walking into puddles,
Away from all the cars...

2011-08-29T00:29:00.000-07:00

Its time the stars started aligning, its time the sun started showing signs of crossing the horizon, its time the moment appeared omnipresent, its time the world tilted 45 degrees east, its time for time to show its concern over the little playboys of our derelict mansions...

2011-08-16T06:54:00.001-07:00

The synapse frightens
the temple of my highs
the blood making shapes in my sky

The rope tightens
the neck of my eyes
the blood drawing colours on my skin

The bridge brightens
the faults of my cries
the blood destroying the time on my hands

One day...

2011-08-15T22:48:00.000-07:00

One day we will look into a light
And stop blinking
One day we will set sail into the night
And stop thinking...

Surface of my face

2011-08-10T07:29:00.000-07:00

There is a silent sun waiting in the raptures of the moon. The phases of the fog are moving in perpendicular to the surface of my face. All this time I waited patiently for the sheep on the hill to disappear into the clouds. The moment is here, the diminishing effect recesses back into the tides. Closing out our worst possible nightmares and bringing the silent sun back into focus.

2011-08-02T01:29:00.000-07:00

What am I looking into?
The surface has changed its shapes and created myriad landscapes waiting to be seen. The moment has brought with it the realism and the surrealism. There is nothing for me here, there is nothing for me there. Everything has to be within this one composite whole, the whole we call man. Inside there are shrines, inside I am holding a candle and waiting for it to stay true to itself and just be a giver of light. Providence meaning nothing at all. What gives? I ask. The three little circles in my heart have names, they are complete within themselves, they are spiraling downwards into the abyss. The horseman comes with news of another life. News from another world beyond ours. Ethereal in its illumination, I stay visceral and sensorial at all times. Open to hear the water smile…

To leave...

2011-06-30T04:23:00.000-07:00

...everything behind
To touch
...everything blind
To know
...the mind's unkind
To hear
...the moment unwind

Image of black

2011-06-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

Tethered to the fabric of my soul is the image of black
From what I imagined it struck me as the fibre of a sack
The flourishes are the finishes of the monumental soundtrack
Of me riding into the endless on horseback

The Reverse

2011-06-25T22:50:00.000-07:00

The reverse is happening, all that I thought was happiness has been turned on its head, now I can see only disarray, a sort of incomplete person, I have been handed the short straw, the time for the big comedown is here and I am spiralling downwards into that mammoth corporate machine, I cannot feel my hands anymore, its funny I thought I had hundreds of them. Its all over. Almost...

There is only seeing

2011-06-25T05:06:00.001-07:00

The seers look at the trapeze-shaped diagram of a heart
Its countoured edges revealing very little colour
Finding countless ways of shaping the start
Of a new beginning, a revolution, a power

They see the light as the world winds its way into their eyes
Sore as the culture's beacon lets movement in
The only way to walk is forwards negating any possible cries
Ribcages torn apart bringing in the end of their kin

The landscape making funny shapes in their plate
Countenance and perseverance all things of the past now
The faces play the number game, one to zero, a finite fate
The machinery's inner system blown to a terminal vow

Idea for a book

2011-04-15T22:33:00.000-07:00

Benaras Phantasmagorik - A book of sketches and notes.
The book documents my visits to Benaras. The first one was in February 2009. Just four days. I lost both my cameras on that trip and met Viswanath, the boatman, someone I would encounter on all forthcoming visits. Then I went back in September when the monsoon rain washed my Sculpting in Time book, when I stayed in that old Haveli where monkeys hung out in my balcony, one of them even smashed my Ray Ban's, that Alpha Male walking in through my room to the balcony while Prakash and me sat there, Prax's birthday when we went to the other side to do pooja and take a dip in the Ganges, that walk in Ramnagar, king on elephant back, the parrots, the parakeets, so many wonderful instances in one day, it was all too much for Prakash to assimilate. Then those meetings with Gabriel, the Belgian who was writing his film in Benaras, living in Assi, playing the violin, the music of Sufjan Stevens, my Sarod, the introduction to Isaac Niemand, someone I hated at first, then the meeting with the Mexican violinist and the Korean sitar player, two wonderful girls living in the cosmos of Benaras, pizzas and apple pie at Vaatika's, humus and wifi at Aum Cafe, Shivani Ma in Red, introduction to peaceful Frenchman Gael Brajeul and how I finally moved into Assi in November when I returned to take Gabriel's wonderful room and its positive energy. All along spliced with moments on the cycle rickshaw with Viswanath, moments in the gulleys on Gabriel's cycle that I got fixed. So many wonderful things happening all too quickly for me to take in. I knew I would miss these days one day in the future. And that day is now...carefree days, probably the best times of my life and better times yet to come when I visited back in 2010 first in November, then in December when I broke up with Katy after she travelled hundreds of miles to see me, finding an old Sarod in Chowk, then buying an Esraj, a Dilruba, a pair of tablas, a German harmonium, that time I stayed till February until those fateful 15 days when I apparently lost it, marking a full circle, Benaras standard time.

Pointers & Adjustments

2011-04-10T23:01:00.000-07:00

Everything seems to be going as per plan. Not my plan. Adjustments are being made every second. I arrive ten minutes late and something has changed. My eyes see what is meant to be seen, only ten minutes later. So many things are missed. So many opportunities lost, so many people slip under the rug never to be seen again. Everything goes according to this grandiose plan, a place that exists like a dream, a thought that exists always throwing garbage into your mind. The birds sing. Inconsequential as they are, they still sing. We ignore everything, we see nothing, we touch nothing, we feel nothing. All the pointers are there for a reason, I wonder which ones to choose and which ones to ignore. The time says 3:33 sometimes, and sometimes it says 11:11. I wait for the moon and that curious cosmic time in Benaras. When will Benaras invite me again with a freshly cleansed face, a face touched by Ganga, hands rising to Suryanamaskar six am in the morning just after Banerjee's Sohini echoes and ricochets in my brain. I am waiting for the final adjustment.I am waiting for another Yak to change my life.

2011-04-08T05:42:00.000-07:00

Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it. Remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: "Its not where you take things from, its where you take them to" - Jim Jarmusch

“The university system has done damage to the artistic traditions” - Zia Fariddudin Dagar

2011-04-07T08:36:00.000-07:00

Ustad Zia Fareeduddin Dagar spoke to Deepak Raja about the Dhrupad Kendra, Bhopal, on October 6, 1998

----

By 1980, I had virtually settled down in Austria. I was running Dhrupad classes in Austria and France. Once, during a visit to India, one of my disciples, the filmmaker, Mani Kaul came to me and pleaded with me to provide the background score for a film he was making on Madhya Pradesh. I was reluctant initially, but I could not refuse Mani Kaul. So, I got involved.

During the making of the film, we spent over two months in Madhya Pradesh, a lot of time in Bhopal In those days, Shri Arjun Singh was the Chief Minister of MP. Cultural development was one of his passions. It is because of him that the magnificent Bharat Bhavan cultural center developed in Bhopal. At that time, the Secretary to the Department of Culture in MP was Shri Ashok Vajpayee, who later went to Delhi as Jt. Secretary, Department of Culture in the Central Government. I spent a lot of time with Vajpayeeji during those days, and we developed a great deal of respect for each other. Thereafter, I returned to Paris to resume my teaching there.

A few months later, I got an offer from Shri Vajpayee to start a government-supported Dhrupad School in Bhopal. By that time, I had become sufficiently cynical about the value of government patronage to the kind of work a serious musician wishes to do. I brushed the proposal aside as just one more of those well-meaning ideas.

By co-incidence, I was visiting the Cannes Film Festival, and there I happened to meet up with Ashok Vajpayee and Mani Kaul, and some other leading figures in the field of art. During the days we spent together, Ashok Vajpayee prevailed upon me to accept the invitation to move back to India and set up the Dhrupad Kendra in Bhopal. Immediately upon his return to India, Vajpayee announced the formation of the Dhrupad Kendra.

We formed a committee to supervise the activities of the Kendra. It had Dr. Premlata Sharma, Pandit Kumar Gandharva, Mani Kaul, my elder brother (the Late Ustad Zia Moiuddin Dagar) and others.

We decided on a training period of four years. Some committee members were skeptical. They thought it was too short. I told them that it was my responsibility to produce first-class performing musicians, and I knew what I was doing. The results are there for everyone to see. In post-independence India, no other institution, with government or corporate funding, has been able to produce comparable results under a Gurukul type institution.

We had a heated debate over the stipend for the disciples. I argued that we are not giving fellowships to mature musicians. We are giving pocket money to students. I insisted that, during their training, we do not pay amounts which permit them to seek distractions. We got the first batch for a stipend of Rs. 350 per month in 1981. Recently, it has been enhanced to Rs. 700, which is reasonable considering the inflationary pressures. Higher stipends could have been obtained from the Academy’s budget; but we might have failed in our mission. I think our tight-fisted policy on stipends has made a major contribution to the success of the institution.

Our selection of students is also unorthodox. We do not limit our selection to people who have a good grounding in music. We have our share of such students, of course. But, we have also accepted students who could not tunefully deliver a film-song on the day of the interview. After a year of training, such students are not doing very much worse than those who came with degrees in music. We are looking for dedication more than anything else, and that spark of creativity. Shaping the raw material is my task, and I know how to do it.

There is also another angle to this. Students, who come to us after maturing in the training of other gharanas, find it difficult to re-orient themselves to our style. Therefore, we try to ensure that the background of our students does not interfere with the process of shaping them into competent Dhrupad musicians.

My students reside in their hostelry, and report for taleem at 4.30 in the morning every day of the year. They go back around 11.00 at night, and return the next morning, again at 4.30. We started the institution with five students in each batch of 4-years duration. Recently, the number of students has been increased to eight, four from families domiciled in Madhya Pradesh, and four from outside the state. We are now into the fifth batch.

We do not have any rigid rules about age at the time of admission. Most students come to us around the age of eighteen. We accept students even upto the age of twenty-eight or thirty, if we feel that they will be able to absorb the taleem.

In a significant departure from the past pattern, we have recently accepted Ph.D. graduates from Benares Hindu University. In this case, the consideration was that, at BHU, they have been trained by Prof. Ritwik Sanyal, one of my disciples. Therefore, the gharana orientation is not a major issue. These students are seeking further training because their earlier education has been governed by the academic prescriptions of the university environment. The performing art belongs to a different world altogether.

The majority of our students are boys. We also accept girls. We have produced some very fine singers amongst ladies. However, the Indian social environment does not normally permit ladies from cultured families to pursue a career in music after marriage. Therefore, considering our mission, this is one part of our success, which is mixed with regret.

My institution has a big name: Dhrupad Kendra, under the Ustad Allauddin Khan Music Academy. But, it is not an institution in the conventional sense. By way of staff, there is me, a sweeper, and a gardener. And, then there are students. That is all. The administrative work is handled by the Music Academy. Establishment expenses, and stipends for students are paid out directly from the Academy. I think we have achieved something because we are not run either like a university, or a government institution or a music academy.

I firmly believe that the university system has done damage to the artistic traditions – not only in music, but also in the other fine and performing arts. Take for instance, painting. Our universities have turned out a lot of very good painters in the oil paint medium. But, they are all functioning without roots in an artistic tradition, because India has no oil-painting tradition. Therefore, I say that, in the university system, you may promote technique, but not tradition. Tradition requires a firm grounding in the past. University education in the fine arts cannot fulfil this requirement.

I am not arguing that government funding for the arts is worthless. Nevertheless, I will argue that if it forces art education to divorce itself from the living tradition, it is achieving nothing worthwhile. In fact, on a national scale, the investment that is being made in art education is producing nothing by way of perpetuating the living traditions. In stark contrast to the university system, the Dhrupad Kendra has proved that it is possible to make government support productive, when it works within the traditional system of art education. I am sure even the Dhrupad Kendra model can be refined and improved. But, the basics must remain rooted in the living tradition.

If this Dhrupad Kendra idea had not taken shape, I and my elder brother, Ustad Zia Moiuddin Dagar, would have continued to train students anyway. So, our work as trainers was not made totally dependent on government funding. Because of government support, I started doing in Bhopal what I would have otherwise been doing in Bombay or Paris or Vienna. And, partly because of government scholarships, we attracted some very promising students. However, I am not sure that equally promising students might not have gravitated towards our training, even without the meager stipends government is paying them. .

In the ultimate analysis, what you need most is an Ustad wanting to teach, and disciples keen to learn. These are the factors which enable a performing art tradition to perpetuate itself.

In a government-supported system, there is a permanent danger of political and bureaucratic processes interfering with the momentum of the efforts. So far, the Dhrupad Kendra has been able to protect itself from this danger. I must, however, confess that I have had my share of frustrations, and have even come close to resigning. I have stayed because I could demand the freedom to do my work, and fulfil my obligations.

As long as the present equation between the Dhrupad Kendra and the government remains, the work we have started will continue. When I am no longer on the scene, I am sure that one of my own students will take over the Guru’s position. After all, that is the way the Parampara has always worked.

I know that Dhrupad musicians will, henceforth, find it more difficult to sacrifice full-time performing careers for a Guru’s position. There is also a non-commercial aspect to a Guru’s self-denial. All the hours that he spends in teaching, are denying to him the satisfaction of his own musical needs – of singing for his own pleasure, and working on his own development as a musician. For an accomplished musician, these are not small sacrifices. Yet, I nurture the fond hope that one of my better students will be willing to give at least half as much of himself to this Gurukul as I have done for over 16 years.

Reproduced, with the publisher’s consent, from “Perspectives on Dhrupad”, edited by Deepak Raja, and Suvarnalata Rao, published by the Indian Musicological Society, Baroda/ Bombay. 1999

Back to Raganga... :)

2011-04-04T06:52:00.000-07:00

Megh Malhar, a raga of considerable antiquity, is associated with the rainy season, and is considered a serious and profound raga, prescribed for performance around midnight. In this sense, this raga may be considered to represent the sombre, and even awesome, facet of the advanced monsoon (July-August), in contrast with Miyan ki Malhar and other Malhar variants, which are explicitly euphoric at the onset of the rainy season (June-July), and the imminent relief from the scorching Indian summer.

Musicologist V.N. Bhatkhande, writing in the first quarter of the 20th century (Sangeet Shastra, vol. IV, L.N. Garg, Ed.,2nd ed.,1970) observed that Megh Malhar is known to, and performed by, only a few Ustads although, according to him, it was not a particularly difficult raga to master. The popularity of the raga has improved considerably since then, even if some of the ambiguities surrounding the raga still remain unresolved.

Subba Rao (Raga Nidhi, vol.III, 4th ed., 1996, Music Academy, Madras) treats Megh and Megh Malhar as two names of the same raga, and goes on to list two versions of it, along with several sub-versions. Bhatkhande lists Megh Malhar as a variety of Malhar, and uses the two names interchangeably, while also identifying several variants of the raga in vogue in his era.

There are, very clearly, two melodic entities contending for the melodic space defined by the concept of Megh Malhar. The first is the tone material taken from the pentatonic raga (S-R-M-P-n), Madhyamadi Sarang (also called Madhmat Sarang) For conceptual clarity, and pending consideration the evidence of contemporary usage, we may call this the Megh element. The second melodic entity is a looped phrase ( R-P-g-M-R) suggestive of Miya-ki-Malhar, which uses the komal (flat) Ga with andolan (oscillated treatment). This may be called the Malhar element. In contemporary usage, however, the relationship between the nomenclature and the melodic form, remains inconsistent.

Bade Ghulam Ali Khan (EMI: STC-850738) and Munawar Ali Khan (unpublished concert of 1984) have announced a Megh Malhar, but the rendition is pure Megh as described above, without the use of the Malhar phrase with the oscillated Ga treatment. Then, Rashid Khan (EMI: STC-850498) and Latafat Hussain Khan (unpublished concert) have announced a Megh Malhar, but have used a phrase with an oscillated Ga suggestive of Darbari Kanada rather than of Malhar.

Now, consider the evidence of performances announced as Megh. Amir Khan (Ninad:0001/2), Nazakat Ali and Salamat Ali (Hannibal: HNBL 1332) Rajan and Sajan Mishra (EMI: STCS-850193), Gundecha Brothers (EMI: STC:04B-7790), Kumar Gandharva (Concord-05-014), Nikhil Banerjee (EMI: STCS-02B-2405) and Shivkumar Sharma (Music Today: A-91026), have all announced Megh and performed pure Megh as described above, without using the Malhar suggestion incorporating the oscillated Ga. However, Bhimsen Joshi (Sony-Nad:NR/0128-4) and Sharafat Hussain Khan (unpublished concert) have announced a Megh, but included in it a phrase using an oscillated Ga. Sharafat used a Malhar suggestion, while Bhimsen has veered towards a Darbari suggestion.

From this evidence, it is tempting to conclude, that the two names are used interchangeably, and being associated with either of the two melodic forms - the bare Megh as defined above, and Megh + Malhar suggestion, as described above. However, on a closer look at the preponderance of usage, it is clear that when a musician announces a Megh, it is more likely to be pure Megh of Madhmat Sarang scale, without the phrase suggesting Malhar with oscillated Ga usage. But, when he announces Megh Malhar, he feels free to perform it either with, or without, the Malhar suggestion. There is, therefore, an implicit acceptance of Megh as a melodic entity, independent of Megh Malhar. The third variant, with a Darbari suggestion replacing the Malhar suggestion, can only be considered an occasional, and idiosyncratic expression.

Because of the acceptance of Megh as an independent melodic entity, it seems logical to attach some significance to the intention of the name of Megh Malhar, and define it as a deliberate enhancement of the pentatonic Megh by using a Malhar suggestive phrase (R-P-g-M-R-S) with an oscillated Ga.

Chalan (skeletal phraseology)
S n. P./ n. R n. S / P. n R / R M P M R / R P M R / R M P / M n P / M P n S' / P n S' R' / M' R' R' / S' R' n S' / S' n n P / M P M R R / R P Mg (oscillation) M R / P M R R / M R n.S

Bhatkhande identifies Sa (tonic) as the primary dominant tone of Megh Malhar, and considers the raga suitable for elaborate exploration in any region of the melodic canvas. Whether with respect to Megh, or Megh Malhar, this view has hardly any takers today. Although Sa is generously used as a melodic focus, the totality of the raga now revolves categorically around the middle-octave Re.

The Prospect...

2011-04-03T04:56:00.000-07:00

...of losing everything and having only a consciousness that reads the failure as "Failure" and nothing else. This is the nightmare I am having every moment. I'm waiting for times metamechanical hands to swoop down and grab me into space. I've had enough. Really.

2011-03-25T08:01:00.000-07:00

Broken flowers
plastering the ceiling

Open towers
Cradling the feeling

Acid showers
Shielding the reeling

Glorious

2011-03-23T02:25:00.000-07:00

The glory of the nineties, the end of the century brought home tulips in white. Electricity was the color of the sun. The oldest living city breathing air and fresh energy into my soul. That night I cried 72.8% water, the curtains looked grey. I thought it was the ascent of man, the dawn of the species. How wrong I was. How right she was. The fall looked like a flash in the sky. The centenary of fireworks. An indication of the end, the downfall. The purpose defeated, the moment gone. Now the moment sits in the real stance. If only I could predict tragedy. The birth and death of the last first one. The last man standing wearing a clone's hat standing in disruption mode. The awe and the wonder of the hands in my pocket, all I wanted was to try to stay and build placards that read "what if?".

2011-03-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

Resolve, dissolve, try, delete, escape somewhere closer to your heart.

Aftermath

2011-03-15T00:26:00.001-07:00

The word is out
Temporarily we hang about
Holding onto little threads
Sleeping at night in our little beds

Thinking in circles and squares
Hoping to circus about in pairs.

We are nothing
Drowning, suffering.
We are the dance
Natures only chance.

God’s lost gifts fighting in threes
Honey and lost money bees
Sulphur’s sheen
Wound up in a live machine

Thinking in zeroes and ones
Hoping to become sixty tonnes.

Slow

2011-03-12T21:13:00.000-08:00

Slowly, slowly the clocks hands move
A mutiny in my head
The heart resides in one of the many limbs
Hiding in the shed

Looking up at the sky and the sun
The sameness is different now
The clouds form no shape
In my elitist brow

Change, again

2011-03-12T07:10:00.000-08:00

And to think I could make plans in my life.
Its all left to the hands of impermanence. The hundredhands of God as He works his way through the traffic and insignificance of human life.
Our future lies in the sink, the age of aquarius brings us closer to what we think, tsunami's in ink...
Man is now being shown his true size.
After a very dark patch, I am slowly recovering from what might be the worst I have ever experienced. This is for me to know. There is not much to be said of what happened between 260111 and 110211. It was all like a mystics dream gone wrong. I will start documenting my recovery now. The past has nothing to do with me. Just traces of memory waiting for cosmic reboot. So, here I will begin again...
My physical hinterland is a failure. Time for the metaphysical Hinterland to come into action. Begin.

240111, Three times closer

2011-01-24T23:59:00.000-08:00

Joy's morning message of Pt. Bhimsen Joshi's death. All morning I was playing Todi on the 12-string, tuning the strings to the notes of the Todi Scale and just improvising for hours, I could play for 24 hours if there was some method of arranging for water and food. :) All morning my tribute to Bhimsenji. The great hearts that God touched, the octave bringing forth joy, longing, hope...the time is here. Now. This is the sixth day of the rest of my life.

Afternoon, I sat with Bhimpalasi for hours trying to hit the ascent to the Shuddha Madhyam like Kumar Gandharv catches it. How beautiful it is, just the interplay of different notes, while the first Tanpura is set to Shuddha Ma & Sa and the second to a higher Komal Gandhar & Sa...and then the coming back to Shadaj is like the light the sun brought down that afternoon in Shivala.

And again, articulated beautifully by Rajan Parrikar:

The ati-madhur and ati-priya Raga Bhimpalasi has the penetrating power to infect the human mind and control it for days and weeks on end. There is as yet no known antidote to the Bhimpalasi contagion. Fortunately, it strikes only those with a mind and so the damage is restricted to a very small fraction of humanity. My first memories of this expansive, orphic raga hark back to the many bhajani utsavs in Goa I had the good fortune to be part of as a lad in shorts. Here I invite you to join me on what promises to be a balmy afternoon cruise through the enticing waters of Bhimpalasi.

The constituent swaras of Bhimpalasi are drawn from the Kafi that corresponding to the 22nd Carnatic melakarta Kharaharapriya: S R g M P D n where M = shuddha madhyam.

The aroha-avarohana set may be stated as:

n’ S g M P n S”::S” n D P M g R S

The aroha-avarohana barely betrays the rich fund of melodic promise vested in this mode. The very idea of raga impels us to look for fulfilment beyond mere scales. The insight, intellectual leap, and abstraction required to ferry us beyond a scale and into the raga realm must be considered a signal achievement in the history of music.

Bhimpalasi traces its antecedents to the almost defunct Raga Dhanashree of the Kafi that (Note: Dhanashree of the Bilawal that is still occasionally performed, and hence the clarifier). In Dhanashree the primary aroha-avaroha contour sketched above is retained, but it is instead characterized by a dominant pancham. When the accent is shifted off the pancham and the madhyam is advanced, the result is an avirbhava of Bhimpalasi and it is precisely this preponderance of the madhyam (nyasa bahutva) that bestows on Bhimpalasi its allure.

The kernel of Bhimpalasi is encapsulated in the following tonal movement:

P’ n’ S M… S g M, M g M g R S
Notice the M-centric nature of the phrase and the reprise of M g.

Supporting movements are:

n’ S g R, S, n’ S M, M P, g M P n D, P
The rishab and dhaivat are langhan (skipped) in arohi movements but assume the role of deergha bahutva in avarohi runs. There is symmetry in the elongation of R and D through the clusters n’ S g R and M P n D, respectively.

M P g M P (S”)n, n S”, P n S” g” R” S”
The typical launch vehicle for the antara.

S” n D, P, D (P)M P (M)g, M, M P (M)g M g R, S
The descent looks innocuous but there are always those gotchas to watch for. A spurious phrase of the type n S” D P may soil the development (we shall have occasion to experience this event later from a great master).

Obiter dictum: Some musicians, notably from the Agra school, view Bhimpalasi as a union of two component ragas, viz., Bheem and Palasi. Accordingly, their Bheem drops the rishab altogether and Palasi the dhaivat (the Bheem of the Khamaj that is today better known by the name “Gavati”). There is a recording of Faiyyaz Khan in Raga Bheem (not adduced here).

---

Night on the terrace with Joy, candle lit, Brownie and Tommy hanging around. The moon looked down at the Ganga, now waning. But then the freshness and rapidity of Malkauns brought back the feeling of rejuvenation, a timely thing well-needed in our times...The moon reflected off the stainless steel, as I listened to the sound of night with just five notes. God has made his presence felt. Every moment brings a song, a message, some cosmic intervention making waves via Ustad Ali Akbar Khan's sleight of hand. I am here, maybe this is the next life, rebirth, dwij.

230111, Octave

2011-01-23T01:19:00.000-08:00

Jaunpuri stayed with me all morning and with the surprise visit of Pallabda, the nuances were clarified in detail. The classic S, G, M-> G, R. That late morning feeling, sun in my eyes, that longing, that final nuance of Pancham giving hope and showing optimism renewing energy by sliding down to Madhyam, Madhyam bringing in the grace of the Gandhar. And Kumar Gandharv is constantly in my room reaching out to the vibrations and tightening them up a bit...

God's grace is here.

The evening brought Marwa home, the frequencies converging in superspace onwards to the red sky. Then the ray of hope with a subtle touch of the Shadaj. Each note a specific mood. A little on the Raga-rasa theory.

Each sruti or micro tonal interval has a definite character; the names manda, candovati, dayavati, ranjani, raudri, krodha, ugra or khsobhini denote their emotional quality which dwells in combination or singly in the notes of the modal scale: thus, dayavati, ranjani and ratika dwell in the gandhara and each of the notes ( swara ) of the scale in its turn has its own kind of expression and distinct psychological or physical effect and can be related to a colour, a mood ( rasa or bhava ), a metre, a deity or one of the subtle centres ( chakra ) of the body. Thus for the sringara (amorous or erotic) and the hasya (laughter) rasa , the madhyama and the pancham are used; for the vira (heroic), raudra (wrathful) and the adbhuta (wondrous), the shadja and the rishabha ; for the bibhatsa (repulsive) and the bhayanaka (fearsome), the dhaivata ; and for the karuna (compassionate), the nisada and the gandhara are used.Every swara stands for a certain definite emotion or mood and has been classified according to its relative importance, and it forms a different part of the person of the modal scale.

And, the wonderful Rajan Parrikar on the Marwa Matrix.

The thought of Raga Marwa stirs memories of many youthful evenings spent walking on the Miramar beach in Panjim, bouncing Amir Khan’s stupendous opus in the corridors of my mind. Lost in the intoxicating reverie wrought by music and colourful sunsets, I occasionally allowed myself the fantasy of imagining what it might be like to feel and see raga from the Himalayan heights of an Amir Khan. I wondered if that great man, too, had likened himself to “a boy playing on the sea-shore, diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of raga lay all undiscovered before me.” After sundown I would walk home to a hearty meal and then hit the sack. For those were the days when we took pride in leisure. How times have changed. Today people take pains to disclose just how “busy” they are, as if it is a badge of achievement. You’d think they have been charged with re-designing God’s floor plan for the universe. [Update: I am delighted to hear that this "pompous" introduction has given some folks piles. As always, I aim to annoy and offend.]

In this installment devoted to the Marwa group, we will examine its familiar members and unveil some of the lesser known affiliates. A companion feature to follow soon will be devoted to the citizens of the Poorvi Province.

Throughout this discussion, M = shuddha madhyam and m = teevra madhyam.

The Marwa-Pooriya-Sohini axis

Marwa is among the ten thats enumerated by Pandit Vishnu Narayan Bhatkhande and is characterized by the swara set S r G m P D N corresponding to the Carnatic melakarta Gamanasrama. The flagship raga of this that – Raga Marwa - drops the pancham altogether. The same is true for two other principals of this group – Pooriya and Sohani. These three ragas maintain a collegial but distinct melodic dynamic. It is therefore instructive to view them together under the same lens. This is a marvelous example of the magic of raga music – the evolution of differences originating from the same scale-set through the agency of chalan bheda (differences in melodic formulation), uccharana bheda (differences in intonation of swara) and vadi bheda (differences in relative emphasis of swara). Facility in this kind of sport demands cultivation of appropriate habits of mind and manana-chintan (reflection). But the game is well worth the candle for the ananda it brings.

The main idea in Raga Marwa is the overwhelming dominance of r and D. This is an apavada since no consonance exists between r and D; it took some genius sense this germ of an idea and fructify. The definitive tonal sentences are:

D’ N’ r G r, N’ D’, m’ D’ S N’ r, S
The points of note in this poorvanga construct are the nyasa on rishab and dhaivat, the langhan (skipping) of shadaj in both arohi and avarohi directions, and the alpatva (smallness/weakness) of N.

D, m G r G m D, D m G r
The madhya saptak movement. Marwa typically employs ‘khada‘ swaras – i.e. the lagav is direct and unwavering, shorn of delicacies and meends (the situation is different in the scale-congruent Raga Pooriya).

D N r” N D, m D N D S”
The uttaranga marker where the nishad is often skipped en route to the shadaj (Pooriya shares this lakshana, but not Sohani).

That was Marwa in a nutshell. It is an affective symbiotic relationship between r and D. Both the swaras are full-blown nyasa locations, yet bound to one another by an invisible cord: the pull of one is strongly felt when you visit the other.

----

Evening Puriya made a grand appearance, other colours emerging, other stars touched.

The night brought the beautiful Chandrakauns out, with that little shift from Malkauns to the Shuddha Nishaad brings in the melancholic touch, unlike Malkauns. With the one shift of a semi-tone, a night transformed. I am immersed in love.

The Sarod has officially changed my life.

The "PIKO" look

2011-01-22T02:01:00.000-08:00

And then, the same day...

2011-01-22T01:57:00.000-08:00

Bhimpalasi made a very long trip home. Stayed with Madhuvanti and me for long while Piko played outside in the sun. Tired and weary from the afternoon sun, Bhimpalasi balances on a tight rope between hope and promise, the two pillars of our society. She stands unscathed, bathing in the white light waiting before Multani comes with its oranges and reds...

The voice is a wonderful thing.

A note about Bhimpalasi
The madhyam (fourth) is the most important note - an important 'nyaas' sthaan (note for rest) with emphasized elaboration around this note - S g M, M g M, g M P, M P g M P (M) g (M) g M... The Rishabh (second) and the Dhaivat (sixth) are skipped in Aarohi (ascending) passages, but are given due importance when descending (Avrohi). Use of the Dhaivat and Rishabh is symmetric and both are approached via the succeeding notes (D from n, and R from g).

And the wonderful Parrikar on the Raag...

The ati-madhur and ati-priya Raga Bhimpalasi has the penetrating power to infect the human mind and control it for days and weeks on end. There is as yet no known antidote to the Bhimpalasi contagion. Fortunately, it strikes only those with a mind and so the damage is restricted to a very small fraction of humanity.

The constituent swaras of Bhimpalasi are drawn from the Kafi thaat which corresponds to the 22nd Carnatic melakarta Kharaharapriya: S R g M P D n where M=shuddha madhyam.

The Aroha/avarohana set may be stated as:

n' S g M P n S"::S" n D P M g R S

The Aroha-avaroha barely betrays the rich fund of melodic promise vested in this mode. It is the genius embodied in the idea of Raga that impels us to look for fulfilment beyond mere scales. The abstraction and intellectual leap required to ferry us beyond a scale and into the realm of Raga must be considered a signal achievement in the history of music. The much ballyhooed Harmony, on the other hand, is a relative no-brainer.

Bhimpalasi traces its antecedents to the almost defunct Raga Dhanashree of the Kafi thaat (Dhanashree of the Bilawal thaat is still occasionally performed). In Dhanashree the primary Aroha-avaroha contour outlined above is retained but is characterized by a dominant pancham. When the accent is shifted off the pancham and the madhyam advanced there obtains an AvirbhAva of Bhimpalasi. It is this preponderance of the madhyam (nyasa bahutva) that bestows on the raga its allure.

----

And then, even later, as I began a lovely walk on the ghats, Jaunpuri made a surprise visit via a telepathic lunar connection sounding Kumar Gandharva's voice.

This raga is very close in spirit and substance to the R-only Asavari so much so that some musicians (for instance, Omkarnath Thakur) do not acknowledge any difference between the two. In recent times Jaunpuri's dominance on the concert stage has virtually extinguished the shuddha rishab Asavari. A widely accepted point of departure in Jaunpuri concerns the komal nishad in Arohi sancharis. Whereas in Asavari n is langhan alpatva (skipped) en route to the shadaj that stipulation is relaxed in Jaunpuri. Still other minor areas of independence from Asavari are suggested, such as a higher value for P over d. As in the shuddha rishab Asavari, R receives a pronounced grace of S. All said and done, Jaunpuri (and the ragas to follow) deeply embodies the Asavari-anga.

And then the night came, with the moon one day smaller, waning of the moon coupled with the waxing of the heart. Madhukauns brings the moons light closer to my heart. God bless Raganga.

Two days (+ 1 one-documented) of the beginning

2011-01-21T22:50:00.001-08:00

210111
The new year brings a new gift. In the manifest form of a Sarod. I call her Madhuvanti sometimes, sometimes Shree. The sunset was spent discovering Sarang in the afternoon, Multani at late afternoon and a touch of empire Marwa in my heart, those meend-laden thoughts making gestures in the sky, next to the sun...

220111
The beautiful morning in Shiv-Ganga, spent on the terrace discovering the vastness of five notes, Raag Bhupali. Although classified in the night category of Ragas, this is one, in my opinion, that can be played anytime because it brings the most innermost feelings of contentment and peace, like floating on the ether into planet hinterland…sitting on this mount looking at Raju's Chi-kong and thinking to myself…"What have I done to deserve this?". And as I close today's morning session, Kumar Gandharv closes of with his version of Bhupali, reminding me of those wonderful times with Bijoy in the blazing heat of Ahmedabad, the sun in the Doshi film is what Bhupali encapsulates, a wonderful new force…now looking back, such a wonderful trajectory. Bless the divine being…

Now those veins have found a limb to reside.

Phantasmagorik November

2010-11-20T01:11:00.000-08:00

Mahadeva.

Tree Interface

2010-11-18T08:33:00.006-08:00

I'm sitting again with the face of another,
Branches and buds in my eyes,
Clouds on my tongue
and
the Mistress of the Dunes now looking back,
her 108 ways of seeing, her hundred and ten hands,
fragile, like
the fabric of early morning mist…
tender, like
the touch of temptation.

The future has no script, its theme is "impermanence", its vice, "death"…

Trikon Miti: A Benaras Triptych

2010-11-11T21:22:00.000-08:00

Story One
Dazzling star from Bollywood in his prime, living in limos, on sex, wine and drugs comes to Benaras to shoot song sequence and loses his eyes in an incident and then disappears. Film industry breaking news. Star goes missing. Finds solace in boatmans house and then begins life-changing few months in disguise & in the company of a new friend who then becomes his eyes and documents everything for him. Two interconnecting trajectories of two people coming from completely different environments. And connecting by chance. A coming-of-age story by force.

Story Two
Deaf and dumb couple find love and salvation, local style in Benaras. The world in the gulleys, the pan, the incense, the cows, dogs, birds, river, earth, sky, the sensorial trip sans words. An expression of love via only one medium. Eyes.

Story Three
A brother and sister come to Benaras to look for their mother who is apparently in Benaras waiting for her death. Their journey in search of their mother through the labyrinthian maze of Benaras, their relationship evolving from one that was cold and distant to an ethereal relationship, a cosmic primordial bond. The mother's character, a mysterious ascetic lost in the transcriptions of the divine.

2010-10-29T22:19:00.000-07:00

When the phantasmagoric heart begins sending you visuals of your soul, catch it and articulate everything in poetry, visuals and sound. The illustrations rich with that sunset-edge, defeating the purpose of the mundaneness of constant striving...
Benaras, back to here and now, life and death, side-by-side, like lost friends meeting again by the river...

The River (Polly Jean Harvey)

2010-10-25T21:37:00.000-07:00

And they came to the river
And they came from the road
And he wanted the sun
Just to call his own
And they walked on the dirt
And they walked from the road
'Til they came to the river
'Til they came up close

Throw your pain in the river
Throw your pain in the river
Leave your pain in the river
To be washed away slow

And we walked without words
And we walked with our lives
Two silent birds circled by

Like a pain in the river
And the pain in the river
And the white sun scattered
Washed away this snow

And we followed the river
And we followed the road
And we walked through this land
And we called it a home
But he wanted the sun
And I wanted the whole
And the white light scatters
And the sun sets low

Like a pain in the river
Like a pain in the river
Like a white light scatters
To be washed away slow

Like a pain in the river
Like a pain in the river
Like the way life scattered
To be washed away slow

When under ether

2010-10-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

----

Dashal, Himachal Pradesh, Oct, 10

----

The silence that broke the noise was a violet-green on her eyelid as it made the great journey into ether and then all the surrounding space, bringing a sort of peace and closure on the inherent stillness that is the essence of us petty humans. Its nocturnary now, the owls are making their appearances on the trees looking at the moon and wondering about patterns and pictures, the wildernests of our earliest subconscious mentalities...ingrained like cups of rice...harvest in full bloom.

Now, the winter has arrived to bring a sort of whiteness into the hearts of us Himachali's metaphorically through snow. The illusion of black on white, now wiped clean, like a clean slate waiting for a new word or a drawing of a bird perched on a tree.

Dream Brother (Jeff Buckley)

2010-10-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

There is a child sleeping near his twin
The pictures go wild in a rush of wind
That dark angel he is shuffling in
Watching over them with his black feather wings unfurled

The love you lost with her skin so fair
Is free with the wind in her butterscotch hair
Her green eyes blew goodbyes
With her head in her hands
and your kiss on the lips of another
Dream Brother, with your tears scattered round the world.

Don't be like the one who made me so old
Don't be like the one who left behind his name
'Cause they're waiting for you like I waited for mine
And nobody ever came...

I feel afraid and I call your name
I love your voice and your dance insane
I hear your words and I know your pain
Your head in your hands and her kiss on the lips of another
Your eyes to the ground
and the world spinning round forever
Asleep in the sand with the ocean washing over...

2010-10-24T09:26:00.000-07:00

2010-10-24T09:19:00.000-07:00

PS. Was walking back, the moon was full power staring at the mountains, the snow was a brilliant white, shining back... :)

Epiphany

2010-10-22T23:29:00.000-07:00

Jai Rumsu Devata and then Snow.
A white Vashisht.
An important day.

Sky over 11

2010-10-21T05:08:00.000-07:00

On. All systems go. Hinterland is home.

Excerpt: Ardh Satya

2010-10-18T22:55:00.000-07:00

Chakravyuh mein ghusne se pehle,
kaun tha mein aur kaisa tha,
yeh mujhe yaad hi na rahega.
Chakravyuh mein ghusne ke baad,
mere aur chakravyuh ke beech,
sirf ek jaanleva nikat’ta thi,
iska mujhe pata hi na chalega.
Chakravyuh se nikalne ke baad,
main mukt ho jaoon bhale hi,
phir bhi chakravyuh ki rachna mein
farq hi na padega.
Marun ya maarun,
maara jaoon ya jaan se maardun.
iska faisla kabhi na ho paayega.
Soya hua aadmi jab
neend se uthkar chalna shuru karta hai,
tab sapnon ka sansar use,
dobara dikh hi na paayega.
Us roshni mein jo nirnay ki roshni hai
sab kuchh s’maan hoga kya?
Ek palde mein napunsakta,
ek palde mein paurush,
aur theek taraazu ke kaante par
ardh satya.

----

Before entering the circle of deceit, who I was, and what I was, I would not remember. After entering the circle of deceit, (there was) between me and the circle, only a deathly intimacy that I never realized. After leaving the circle of deceit, even if I am set free, the design of the circle of deceit, will hardly be different. Whether I kill, or die, am killed or kill (the other) these questions will never be decided. When a sleeping man awakes and steps forth, then the world of dreams may never be seen again (by him). In that, the light of Decision, will everything be level? On one tray (of balance) is impotence, and on the other is Manhood, and exactly at the needle point, a half-truth.

----

From a scene in the film "Ardh Satya". Written by Vijay Tendulkar. The image emerged because of S's WH Auden poem... so makes for good accidental poem tennis.

The Labyrinth

Anthropos apteros for days
Walked whistling round and round the Maze,
Relying happily upon
His temperment for getting on.

The hundreth time he sighted, though,
A bush he left an hour ago,
He halted where four alleys crossed,
And recognized that he was lost.

"Where am I?" Metaphysics says
No question can be asked unless
It has an answer, so I can
Assume this maze has got a plan.

If theologians are correct,
A Plan implies an Architect:
A God-built maze would be, I'm sure,
The Universe in minature.

Are data from the world of Sense,
In that case, valid evidence?
What in the universe I know
Can give directions how to go?

All Mathematics would suggest
A steady straight line as the best,
But left and right alternately
Is consonant with History.

Aesthetics, though, believes all Art
Intends to gratify the heart:
Rejecting disciplines like these,
Must I, then, go which way I please?

Such reasoning is only true
If we accept the classic view,
Which we have no right to assert,
According to the Introvert.

His absolute pre-supposition
Is - Man creates his own condition:
This maze was not divinely built,
But is secreted by my guilt.

The centre that I cannot find
Is known to my unconscious Mind;
I have no reason to despair
Because I am already there.

My problem is how not to will;
They move most quickly who stand still;
I'm only lost until I see
I'm lost because I want to be.

If this should fail, perhaps I should,
As certain educators would,
Content myself with the conclusion;
In theory there is no solution.

All statements about what I feel,
Like I-am-lost, are quite unreal:
My knowledge ends where it began;
A hedge is taller than a man."

Anthropos apteros, perplexed
To know which turning to take next,
Looked up and wished he were a bird
To whom such doubts must seem absurd.

2010-10-17T10:28:00.001-07:00

The real living, breathing, seeing Hinterland becomes a possibility.
Today. :) Purpose, finally. Purple. Its all purple in this blue in green, colours collaborating, artists collaborating, phases of colour with Reich's score on top, the seeds are sown, the intagibility of the fruit is like the brook's morning raga...

Girl (Soil, Himachal Pradesh)

2010-10-17T04:20:00.000-07:00

Blue in green, nature with the intervention of mankind, brought to life in Soil. Of those extravagant moments in a time out of time, lapsed in a momentary unconvention, breaking the little metallic pieces of our snazzy homes, the twinkle in her eye brought back time...and then brought back hope. Time to come home...

Hearts Adjacent

2010-10-15T09:01:00.000-07:00

Shot through the Fog
Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock/The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire/I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice/In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs - shot through the fog; time taking care of whatever I cared about/ So you are lost somewhere in here - your body, a raft,spinning towards the falls/Your death claimed me too - there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised/The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London's sky.
----
Certainty
There are more people alive now than have ever lived - I read that somewhere and instantly thought it impossible but if it were to be true, I wonder that, if we keep living this fast, no-one will have time to die/I've met people whose lovers died in war and I've wondered what this helplessness could be like - one minute there's a whole life entwined with yours and the next, just a space and scattered clues/When I watch old films in which animals appear, I get sad because those animals are certainly dead now - and that certainty prompts my private epitaph and I have to say it out loud : "That dog is dead, that cat is dead, that horse is dead..."
----
Piano Magic, a wonderful new discovery.

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins

2010-10-15T00:06:00.000-07:00

The name of the author is the first to go followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Animated Poetry

2010-10-14T21:35:00.000-07:00

Start. Point the six lines to an arrow, bring the curtain down with a flame insignia at the centre, point of kilter, the name of the sound is given to the blade of grass, that cosmic messenger, our hearts pointing heavenwards, like trees waiting for some sort of sign from a being that can only speak and understand Visra, the language of the dead. They came with dafoodils on their collars, pelicans in their wallets and white hinterlands in their hearts, they looked for a home, they looked for a refuge in the hills, and those autumn-time tea's on the verandah looking at the Himalayas without perspective.

2010-10-14T05:06:00.000-07:00

The Probability of an Epiphany. Cues - Joy, Charlie, the age of aquarius, once in twelve years, the remergence of If and its infinite possibilities, India Fraterna, Improbable Fire, Instant Friendship, Impermanent Feedback, Idiot Face, Imperceptible Future, Ishtaaq Firoha, dot dot dot. Really...how weird all this is, the way life moves and time moves always revealing new shapes and colours, new probabilities, new failures and new hope. Its the age of aquarius, I am connected in a lunar sort of way into the whole once-in-twelve-year's epiphany-thing. Which road, which path, which way forward, why which, why how, why when?

The Best Cigarette by Billy Collins

2010-10-13T03:10:00.000-07:00

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.

The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.

How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.

Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

The Amphibian

2010-10-10T00:52:00.000-07:00

And ten more kollisions for 10.10.10. / p

Accent of Time

2010-10-09T05:23:00.000-07:00

2010-10-08T07:16:00.000-07:00

The quirky world of Gemma Correll.

2010-10-07T07:10:00.001-07:00

None in words.

VS Arts declares...

2010-10-05T23:39:00.000-07:00

VS Arts opening his heart (art) out in protest to the common declarations by scientists the world over, about the world getting over. He declared that the earth will continue to live on and on and we could go visit him and his stall of paintings in Vashisht in 2013. Its his guarantee. How he spoke on camera, theatric denouements thrown in for effect, silences, those eyes looking away to Sai (as he cleans the xillum). It came as no surprise that I am now in the heartland, Hinterland is omnipresent, visceral, like the soul's last look back at the illusory world of the mind. It was 11.10, then, its 12.12 now.

Circular Inconsistency, Vashisht

2010-10-05T01:40:00.000-07:00

Life is back. Vulnerability is back. Inconsistency is back.

More Kollisions

2010-10-03T09:11:00.000-07:00

Look here, K.
And today I dedicate the Kollisions to M, for her wonderful spirit, for the stories she told me today, for that constant shaking of her ponytail, her ragas, her showdown with a gay Hitler-fanatic, that punchline, the beers at Satya's, remembering Athlete and Trading Air, those moments later at her place listening to the wonderful Kalapini Komkali, her stories in New York, her two weeks of magic, my one week of magic, how cosmically it all came together, one day before I leave for the hills.

Eyeless

2010-10-03T00:33:00.000-07:00

Lyric - Slipknot

2010-10-02T21:58:00.000-07:00

And then there were those things, the other things, the things of the mind, the nothings of the heart, the camera-tilt of the supereye, the threadless machine we once called Industry, that white-lining on the satin that never untangles from its source, that limitless light within a drop of water, the rain pouring down for ten seconds, and the water looking at the sun in macrovision remembering the moon's sudden disappearance in the last four days of summer...

The hills come rolling this time of the year. :)

2010-10-02T21:12:00.000-07:00

Life is too short to wait for things that might never come.

XX1008

2010-10-01T20:08:00.000-07:00

It is never easy to put words to what is essentially a subterranean process, or to speak about my work as though I am separate from it. To me, the act of creating these works is a process of evolution, a process that I go through along with the materials I use. And I use the word evolution, not in a linear sense of development, or progress, but as a tangled process that involves chaos, contradictions, emotional fluctuations, transformations and tangential leaps.

Is deterioration as beautiful a process as creation?
Is reality less real than artifice?
Is chaos the perfect symmetry?
Does death point a knowing finger at life?
What does a malignant bloom look like?

I go in search of the answers to these questions, and my sculptures are born along the way. - Sakshi Gupta
---
I'm enjoying the inconsistency of Sakshi Gupta's wonderful art.

01.10.10

2010-10-01T05:29:00.000-07:00

A good start to 10.10. Today I think of the minds limited ways as opposed to the hearts unlimited ways, like that duality in nature, the consistency of the seas as opposed to the inconsistency of the hills. Its 01.10.10. Consistency of the clock throwing everything else out of balance.

Sans Soleil (Opening Shot)

2010-10-01T04:00:00.000-07:00

The first image he told me about was of three children on a road in Iceland, in 1965. He said that for him it was the image of happiness and also that he had tried several times to link it to other images, but it never worked. He wrote me: one day I'll have to put it all alone at the beginning of a film with a long piece of black leader; if they don't see happiness in the picture, at least they'll see the black.

Three days, almost...

2010-09-30T21:02:00.000-07:00

...and I'll be back in The Inward Arc - Transvisionary Centre for Art & Aesthetics with Joy. In a few days I'll be having nice chai in that gorgeous electric blue woodenhouse, watching people walk by, hearing Cheengu cheengu, cheengu, watching Joy write those filmnames with yellow, blue, red chalk, todays screenings at Inward Arc... writing with so much care, his supramentality in his paintings, 108 ways of seeing, Om-Sheela, such positivity and then Sai Baba Mahadev passing by, coming up, we light up, then hot spring, then Chauhans, Guraans, oh Je Taime Vashisht!!!

The Business of Mourning (Andrew Tracy)

2010-09-30T20:08:00.000-07:00

Film culture today seems rather akin to the model of an expanding universe, traveling ever further outward while that which is known about what it already encompasses becomes increasingly infinitesimal. As ever more discoveries, old and new, become ever more available to an ever more passionate, articulate, and interlinked cinephile community, the giddy thrill of discovery is accompanied by a palpable anxiety about the integrity of the medium itself. Even as images flood to us as never before, we remain fearful of their being taken irretrievably away. Gorging on cinema, we’re continually beset by a sense of loss, warily eyeing each new technological bogeyman as if it heralded the end of the purity we’ve imagined for ourselves.

The digital daemon, on both the filming and viewing side, is only the latest in a long line of developments that lay dormant for years until a certain set of conditions allowed them to bedevil our perpetually distressed consciousness. As with so many of its “revolutionary” forebears, the noise it’s generated from commentators informed and less so is primarily a lot of guff—which is not, of course, to say that it has no implications for cinema’s future. Like any other tool, digital opens up some options, precludes others, and allows some to remain the same. It’s another agent of change in a medium that has been predicated on change from the beginning. “A transitory blip in the history of the visual arts,” Kent Jones dubs it in his excellent collection Physical Evidence—not a lament, but a recognition that cinema only came into existence in the first place through the intersection of some profoundly disparate and arbitrary forces. Digital is simply another forking path for a bastardized medium that will proceed on its own merry way largely irrespective of our fervent hopes and wishes.

Which isn’t to say that we shouldn’t be concerned about where it’s going. Thing is, though, that all the anxiety about the future of the medium, and the experiments being undertaken within it, can only be articulated in terms of the past. Whatever else they are, the frequently cited standard bearers of this “revolution”—your Miami Vices, your Zodiacs, and Inland Empires—are pitched at a thoroughly familiar level of cinematic comprehension (yes, even the Lynch). Textures have changed; intentions have not. And while the former certainly conditions how we perceive the “film” in front of us, the familiar frameworks of understanding built into the latter push us continually back into the concerns of the past. Perpetually backwards-looking as we are, the best we can hope for is to better order that past in order to comprehend our still-unknown present.

All of which is to ask the simple question: is there any “filmmaker” who faces the shifts within his chosen medium with such blissful unconcern as Chris Marker? Marker’s swearing off of film for good in the Nineties had nothing of an iconoclastic air about it. As new developments tend to do, video had accentuated a preexisting condition rather than initiating an entirely new one: in Marker’s case, making the affinity of material and metaphor in his work all the more identical. “These images are not the substitute for my memory, they are my memory,” Alexandra Stewart intones in Marker’s perpetually surprising 1982 master text Sans Soleil. Though Marker has been supplanted from his own experiences by the record he’s kept of them, pushed even further away by the interpolation of the filmed records of others, it can be said that his aesthetic is founded precisely upon losing images—losing proprietorship over them, seeing them taken away and transformed by each successive incarnation. It’s a condition he highlights through the many winking mediations in his work, such as attributing the text of Sans Soleil to the letters of one “Sandor Krasna” and articulating it through the inimitable voice of Stewart.

Like his fellow recluse Godard, Marker is forever concerned with the meaning of the image, but where Godard’s palimpsests overload those images with meaning both visual and aural, the meaning of Marker’s images is being forever stripped away, and any trace of his “authorship” with it. Recall in Sans Soleil “the Zone,” his friend’s image device which renders the political struggles of the Sixties as abstract images of colored electronic movement, creating an impression of struggle, an emblem which Marker says is “more honest” than the traps of context and explanation. Material and metaphor: the Zone is both an active transformation and intervention into the image and a representation of the operations of time—a relentless process to which Marker blissfully consigns his own images at the end of the film.

Yet Marker is not indulging in some postmodern vanity about the absence of meaning. Meaning is the structuring absence of his entire project—the grin of his images is merely the meager visual evidence of the unseen cat. Marker is not a “creator” but an arranger, ordering the trace remnants of a felt but invisible past with the tools presented to him in the present. “I’ll have to give these images to my friend Chris one day, see if he can make any sense of them,” says Laura (Catherine Belkhodja), the protagonist of Level Five; “Chris, the editing wunderkind,” she slyly adds. Marker’s last feature, and his first on video, divorces him even further from the visual and verbal text he’s devised. Ostensibly the video records of Laura’s attempts to reach her dead lover by completing his computer program reenacting the Battle of Okinawa, the last and most ferocious conflict of the Pacific War, Level Five forgoes any idea of cinema as a “pure” medium, placing it instead as one element within a vast media interface, a resource to be accessed within a larger project of memory reclamation.

Yet even as it opens with a quotation from Gibson’s Neuromancer, the ubiquitous ur-text of such speculative fictions, Level Five’s vision of ultramodernity has a charmingly musty air about it. The menu screens, multiple monitors, and overlaid graphics that delineate Laura’s physical and virtual workspace seem like visions of a future conceived in the past. Rather than inadvertent quaintness, however, the bluntness and functionality of the instruments at her command retain a seductively mythic quality: a dream of labyrinthine interiors, of unending possibilities for connection and evolution seems to lurk within the unadorned casings and matter-of-fact command functions.

Marker understands the romance of technology even as he slyly undermines it. Laura likes to taunt the computer by substituting nouns for verbs in her command orders, leading to such perplexed declarations from the poor unit as “I don’t know how to shoe,” “I don’t know how to baguette,” and so on. The expanding media universe in which Marker situates his perpetual concerns provides no answers, but rather sharpens the pertinence and pathos of the questions. Just as in Sans Soleil he fantasized about a visitor from the future whose total recall makes him nostalgic for forgetting, Marker’s ventures into new media simply provide more means of entry to the unrecoverable, unalterable, and unknowable past that fascinates him. Marker’s “future” is not a projection of speculation and fantasy, but an abstract space shorn of the necessities of living in the present: a space literally out of time, a space whose removal from the helplessly chronological experience of time allows the possibility of accessing that already passed time which is the sole source of meaning.

Marker can thus be said to be both the most and least materialistic of “film”-makers. Film for him is not the simultaneous Holy Grail and lying whore which pains Godard so, paradises lost and regained with every strenuous effort. Where Godard’s invocations of classical music, painting, literature, and poetry compound his images with extrinsic doses of cultural capital, a reactionary striving for Truth within his loved and hated medium, Marker’s unconcern with the discrete qualities of his material blends them into a whole which is both seamless in its presentation and dizzying in its conceptual and stylistic leaps. Even as Marker ceaselessly draws attention to the fragile, exclusionary, and distorting properties of the filmic image, those images stand in equivalence to all the other evidence with which we seek to make some sense of the cinematic century and the post-cinematic one that follows it. Marker’s catholicity blithely forgoes any essentialist propositions about the “innate” qualities of the medium employed. Film, video, computer —all are simply extensions of our searching, questioning, occasionally lying eyes and ears.

To deny that each progressive extension entails a loss as much as it does an advance would be foolish; to proclaim that our consciousness of that loss would be effaced as well at least equally so. There has never been a pure state from which we have fallen, but it is the unyielding belief in such a state that drives us to create meaning out of the partial and unspeaking fragments that we possess. Nostalgia is a powerful force, and nostalgia for that which we never had is perhaps the most powerful of all. The intentional or unintentional task of the new media will forever be to articulate the loss, imagined, or actual, of that which preceded it, and in that business of mourning find the only justification for its existence. As Sans Soleil’s images enter the Zone in its final scene, dissolving into meaningless patterns of light and color, Stewart wonders “Will there ever be a last letter?”—a question whose optimism is as pointed as its rue.

Abstrakt Kollision

2010-09-29T22:49:00.000-07:00

AbstraktKollisionFreshness. Featuring Hierarchy, Rocky Road, Rebel, Skeletal Error, Core, Saraswati, Alpha, Entra Trenata, Dryday, Crossroads, Digital Destruction, Digital Sunrise Pt. I, Exodus110, HorseWithFrenchBun, Mixedfeelings, Sevenhundredyearsback, Severesky, SkeptikSky, Trikon Mithi, Visible Path, Watersecrets

3, 2, 1 Room 1, Inward Arc

2010-09-29T21:04:00.000-07:00

Cosmic Intelligence Transmitting Images To My Head. :)

11:47 to 00.02 (Moondance)

2010-09-29T20:26:00.000-07:00

Magic every night. We have wands and we wave them in the sky letting the Moon do her dance. Peaking quietly, half-moon in waiting. Looking. Seeing the stupidities of man and probably laughing at Inspector Jigantar, Constable Babantar and Driver on our way to the wine shop. A wonderful evening of Wooten baba's sonic love, Gary Willis, Vadrum's Barber of Seville, of talking in Visra after S left, seemed like for hours on end as our minds relaxed unable to fathom the Visceral world of the void sentence, a tendency to be nothing for a few minutes, to let the mind sleep, our own unique form of meditation, of that slip of the tongue "Kudrat Ka Mela", Omo (inhale) & Azu (exhale), such moments captured and scripted for future film ideas... then those 15 minutes going back home, looking at the moon over the bridge to the sound of Truffaz's "The Dawn". And then that final moment, car parked, I thank Shiva for life, for everything and as soon as I say that, watchman appears from nowhere and greets me like he has never before, Shiva sending cosmic vibes via the human form. Transcendent. There are so many things that are completely out of our grasps. Or maybe I'm reading into everything too much. Moment-unanalysis needs to happen. So, time to stop thinking, time to live in the absence of thought, the abstrakt kollision of Visra.

2010-09-28T23:06:00.000-07:00

The Eye by Vladimir Nabokov, designed by John Gall.

Moon & I: Monologue

2010-09-28T21:14:00.000-07:00

11:39, time out of hand. I stop to think of the cosmic being, the living, breathing earth, look up at the sky and the Moon makes her appearance again from behind the passing black clouds, every once in a while, like a smile, looking at all those men in exile, waiting to make it to the other place where everything will be understood, where everything will be simpler, where love and warmth will find their way. Prior to that, a string of events...
Meeting M, diverse-enthusiast, I was introduced to his life, of his love for cars, his dream of producing a film called "0&1", of doing K2K (Kanyakumari to Kashmir) in his Gypsy, getting NDTV to cover it, he has charted out his life on the blueprint of his mind, its all clear. And that wonderful ending to the evening when JG made fresh Dosa's and Coriander Mint Chutney. All in all, the magic stayed another night, keeping me company day after day as I understand and constantly think of topics like impermanence, the body electric and the oneness of life. I'm waiting here, I seethesea.

And with Tagore, the sun... :)

Last Poems #13

The first day's sun
questioned
the new appearance of being –
Who are you?
There was no answer.

Years went by.
Day's last sun
asked the last question from the shores of the west
in the soundless evening –
Who are you?
There was no answer.

----

Rabindranath Tagore wrote until the end which came for him on August 7, 1941. This poem is from Final Poems recently published. They are translated from the Bengali jointly by Wendy Barker Saranindranath Tagore, a great grandson of the venerable Tagore.

According to the authors of Final Poems, this poem is the most famous of Tagore's later poems in the Bengali language. They point out its similarity to the Creation Hymn of the Vig Reda (c. 2000 BCE). This hymn begins with the unforgettable line, "There was neither nonexistence nor existence then."
It ends with these lines:

Who really knows? Who will here proclaim it? Whence
was it produced? Whence is its creation? The gods
came afterwards, with the creation of this universe. Who
then knows whence it has arisen?

Whence this creation has arisen – perhaps it formed itself,
or perhaps it did not – the one who looks down on it, in
the highest heaven, only he knows – or perhaps he does
not know.

Question (By Tagore)

2010-09-28T00:22:00.000-07:00

God, again and again through the ages you have sent messengers
To this pitiless world
They have said, 'Forgive everyone', they have said, 'Love one another --
Rid your hearts of evil.'
They are revered and remembered, yet still in these dark days
We turn them away with hollow greetings, from outside the doors of our houses.

And meanwhile I see secretive hatred murdering the helpless
Under cover of night;
And Justice weeping silently and furtively at power misused,
No hope of redress.
I see young men working themselves into a frenzy,
In agony dashing their heads against stone to no avail.

My voice is choked today; I have no music in my flute:
Black moonless night
Has imprisoned my world, plunged it into nightmare. And this is why,
With tears in my eyes, I ask:
Those who have poisoned your air, those who have extinguished your light,
Can it be that you have forgiven them? Can it be that you love them?

Language of the Dead

2010-09-27T22:15:00.000-07:00

Notes

2010-09-27T21:33:00.000-07:00

AHER/I's concept of Notes. And how he uses it to document the advice he needs to give to young musicians, of disciplining them with key words like Time, Professionalism, Duty, capital T, capital P, capital D and of XY1-1111 and how he documents magic on the phone, those moments that often escape from the grasps of time, poems, sightings of the moon, of moments of love and warmth, of those kinetic moments post-Gx-genome, of ideas and thoughts in Visra. How differently we all see the world, how differently we utilise our minds and our hearts, how strange all this really is. Its beyond belief. The violin could be three notes lower and we would never know what hit us. Really...

11:11 & The Moon

2010-09-27T20:44:00.000-07:00

After a wash of Nu Taq K, I stepped out from J-Ganter's place to see the headless moon, my eyes like two little windows. And discovering the music of Jagjit Singh again, 17 years later and I still remember the nuances in those heartfelt songs. I remember those tapes I had of "In search" & "Insight". And I'm constantly thinking of that one annoying little thing, of my file (life) and if the "increasedeleteescapedefeat" procedure is being carried out on it, my ascii heart still in waiting. Driving back, looking at the moon at 11:11 through my window and a strange poem rests on my head and heart.

I miss much,
the eternal touch
of that girl from Kutch.

----

Three minutes later, the sound rings from the pixel transmission centre of friendship or a brotherhood, of a moment waiting to be held in my fingertips, fists clenched around plastic, the heart and the bubbles, bringing the lungs to the forefront of that second when the water is dreaming, when all the air rises, enters and is finally let out, fumes in unison with the mind's psychotropic ways...

2010-09-27T01:57:00.000-07:00

On "Exodus110"

2010-09-25T08:30:00.000-07:00

File: Exodus110, If_en_blafen_sho & If_shan_bashen_Ko
Visra, the language of the dead, and the stories of two friends Ifenblafensho & Ifshanbashenko who meet "here" (on earth) and then "there" (in heaven) where they talk in Visra and everything is understood. The language of the heart finds no boundaries in translation or communication, it transcends all boundaries. It lives after death when all language has disappeared, when the time has come only for the soul to speak, only for love's most deepest contact, a real contact of two souls. Not like in these times when love has to be so carefully evaluated and analyzed before it can be accepted and reciprocated. Ifenblafensho & Ifshanbashenko are waiting to move to that space of superconsciousness, where we can say hello to our departed German friend.
Ifsoroha is here, now. Right here, right now.

Peripetics by Zeitguised

2010-09-24T21:30:00.001-07:00

Peripetics from zeitguised on Vimeo.

‘Peripetics or The installation of an irreversible axis on a dynamic timeline’

Zeitguised made a piece in six acts for the opening exhibition at the Zirkel Gallery. It entails six imaginations of disoriented systems that take a catastrophic turn, including the evolution of educational plant-body-machine models and liquid building materials.

Length: 5000F/ 3min 20s
Sound Design: Zeitguised with Michael Fakesch

2010-09-23T05:32:00.000-07:00

23rd September. I remember the day fifteen years back. On the thirteenth floor of Barton Centre, Ebony Restaurant. With a million thoughts of love and that auroral image of A. I'm not there. I'm here. Now. Period.

Bizarre Banalities of a day

2010-09-22T20:52:00.000-07:00

A day that started with that strange moment after my haircut when I felt Mahesha, the auto-driver had the same eyes as mine.
Of later, when the mind said to the heart, "Dont be silly" and the heart replied, "C'mon Billy". To document some moments in point form. She has her own string section (and J-Ganter replies "She comes with strings attached"), possibility of opening scene in a film. Of the man who transcribes Viscera and understands its deepest meaning in the spell check, of J-Ganter's txt "sorry for me is waiting for you"...and talking of txts, that midnight rally, those Navratilova-esque safe shots and that moment when the ball hit the net, over and out, of the ascii-magic of computers and how the processing unit converts all the 1's to 0's in the deletion procedure, of looking at the time at 11:11, car-clock colon's blinking in 4/4, re-discovering Kailasa's Jhoomo Re, reaching home and as I'm going to sleep after an exhausting day, the time 00.00, my ascii heart erased of all the potential of a real love, all metadata in the recycle bin, all one's converted to zero's. Its time to leave. Really. To disappear...

To end with that lovely quote from Sans Soleil. I'm paraphrasing here -
"Only banalities interest me, I have chased it with the relentlessness of a bounty hunter"

JVS

2010-09-21T20:15:00.000-07:00

The Life of Jigantar, ex-cop, dramaturgist.
In the ongoing series of documenting the language of Viscera, the language of the heart, the two friends Babantar and Jigantar meet up to see what's happening in the world today only to be surprised by the sonic un-intelligence of the corporate world only to be consumed in total unfiltered entertainment, sifarha va jigantar trifola gulpetaga begum. This is the beginning of the avant-garde.

2010-09-19T22:36:00.001-07:00

Back.
*Insert Grunge riff here* :)

To...

2010-09-18T22:01:00.000-07:00

I need to throw this knife out the window,
My hands are turning red, the blood rushing to my head
My heart like an anchor, holding my thoughts like a thread.

I need to throw this strife out the window,
My face is holding unwanted genetic information
And traces of that ultimate descent into subjugation.

N. Singh, the man out of time

2010-09-17T22:36:00.000-07:00

A very heavy day. Full of information, sensorial, arterial, visceral. Of all those things that happened, I loved that phone call with TV, of pink Giraffe's, of Benares meets Diesel cherippu, classic articulation, my friend for life, that long call with DT, the way I became that floating string back in the air, that vulnerable kite, flying about with no direction or purpose, of how I can never base anything on life, of expecting absolutely nothing, being now and surrendering to nothingness, like that leaf flying about...this will be my life as I know it. Impermanence is the only thing I can count on. And ofcourse the ten fingers of my hand, the ten seconds that we have, nothing more, nothing less.

Then...

An epic evening. Unexpected. Chandrakanth, Inspector Jiganthar and me finally connect like three dots. Energies overwhelmingly powerful as we discuss ideas for a set of experimental films to be shot in the language of Viscera, subtitles open to receive topics ranging from Love, Fear, Loss, Disappointment, Anger, Politics. Of two friends talking in an unknown language, sometimes saying nothing, just listening to music. The electricity in the room was quite brilliant, Jean-Luc Ponty exploding through the Yamaha speakers, until we were disturbed by an uninvited visitor at 11pm, the cult of N. Singh. As soon as he entered, aural transfers went berzerk. He broke time. A third party- application. He would be that uninvited guest who roams around the city disrupting time and breaking connections by bringing his life's problems into the lives of others. He spoke with no filters revealing his innermost problems to strangers. After an uncomfortable confrontational episode, he left and we returned to the room to talk. Chand told me about N. Singh's wife who has apparently gone nuts. Then, from that thought, Chand was reminded of this very strange story of a boy who he once knew, who was in a coma for about five years, whose brain was operated (experimented) on fourteen times, his father and how he met him, man in white and white who was around the neighbourhood looking for a Xerox place, accidently landing up in Chand's office. A man part of the criminal intelligence outfit Octopus. All these people, their characters and their lives were out of a film. Of how Chand tried to teach painting to the "mentally withdrawn" child as he made labels on the painting with tags like sky, earth, river. Of how the brain is so fragile, a little out of balance and we have absolutely nothing. This boy has lost all memory and the only things that still remain are those basest of human experiences, the sun, the sea, the clouds, of how he would get up, lost, and want to leave to see Chand and not realise he is in his presence, of getting him out of the studio, circling the neighbourhood and coming back to calm the mind, of how he lost it totally due to his hate for his parents, breaking everything in Chands studio. Then those strings of serendipitous moments, both Chand and me saying "Who" at the same time, those brilliant sparks going off between Prax and me, as always, a type of visceral extravaganza everytime we meet. God is great for giving me this. And so much more. How can I ever be unhappy?

And in the end, as the three of us looked at the mic facing the wall, the only thought that crossed our minds is "When is the wall going to speak and say something, how much longer can a mic wait...?"

2010-09-17T03:25:00.000-07:00

Three-point trajectory (Development)

2010-09-16T06:56:00.000-07:00

Idea for a film:
Naseeruddin Shah. Aging pianist. Lives in an old wooden house, high ceilings, sculpture, art, steinway grand piano, Chopin notations scattered everywhere, culture, books, films, music. Invites his compadre, experimental artist Om Puri over for dinner to celebrate a re-union of sorts, a meeting after many many years, and Om's new love, a 25 year old film student. Possibly Deepika Padukone. Cool, contemporary, avant-garde outlook on life. 2 hours, one evening. Shot in real-time. Dinner, music, dialogue and possible chemistry going off between Naseer and Deepika as he begins to re-imagine Chopin at twelve o' clock, midnight. Of the meaning of love, insecurity, infatuation, age-difference, confrontation, sincerity, of a long-term friendship, impermanence of love and other things of the heart. What a young girl could do to shake the equation of an ethereal bond between two aging friends. Is love really required? How do you decide what's more important, a friendship or a (fleeting) love? Answers to the basest of human questions. Is art the bringer/giver of presence? Is the elusive artist more attractive than the artistic lover?

N. Gopu - D. Okat (Exchange)
NG
Wow, interesting subject, bro. Very interesting...I can totally picture it in my head. Art, love and all that you have mentioned. Quirky characters, intelligent dialogues, some deep philosophy at midnight. You should definitely get down and work on this man. And since you are in this frame of mind, have you seen Jules et Jim?

DO
No whats that...
I sent the idea to a friend and this is what she added to it...
----
Very nice, but would tweak the central idea/characters a little since the young woman/mentor love angle has been done to death. What if during this reunion between the two, the neighbour (young woman who lives alone) has locked herself out and has to spend a couple of hours with them in naseer;s flat till her spare keys arrive. This way everyone is starting from point A. No one has any prior stake on the woman hence each one tries to out do the other.

Makes any sense?
----
Nice, no? Remember Srika saying "NICE" and that granmom type of chin...

NG
Oh, I didn't know the young girl would be a protege.

My two cents, bro..

In my opinion, if you take the second idea, there isn't any 'conflict', no? So it becomes fully character driven, which is also nice. I didn't like this 'outdoing the other in a span of 2 hours' idea much da. Then it would be just better to keep it like a conversation between 3 intellectuals, on the topics you've mentioned, without introducing any romance. Just some chemistry at the most... Plus, I feel, locking herself out by mistake seems too forced. It would take you some effort to establish the premise here, but, with your version, its all there.

I like your take man, without keeping a protege mentor relationship, though. Om puri dating this girl who seems too good to be real. This way the woman also feels comfortable to open up on such topics...

"Is love really required? How do you decide what's more important, a friendship or a (fleeting) love?"

It would be more dynamic if Naseer and this 'couple' talk on such topics..Naseer getting more and more fascinated by this woman, as she puts forward her perspective on different subjects.

Also, in the second version there isn't really a scope for introducing topics like "meaning of love, insecurity, infatuation, age-difference, confrontation, sincerity, of a long-term friendship, impermanence of love and other things of the heart".
There wouldn't be any 'confrontation' or 'insecurity', no?

This is a superb subject , bro..Loved it. Keep working on it man..

Fin, for now. Building procedure to begin. *Halo*

Little-ities

2010-09-15T07:18:00.000-07:00

Ethereal bond, circa 1977. I love my brother for all that he is. x
----
And then later
Impermanence (Live at the Electric Crystal Table, 150910)
"In impermanence, lies all of life", I realized as I wished S Babantar (the spirit of Aryakaanthe) goodbye. Of the solar and the lunar, Shiva's calling, that Kundalini awakening, of the cosmic way and how strange everything really is, our bodies, our minds, the tricks they play, the moments they wear and tear, of our deepest sincere emotions flying on a thin string of kite, flying about with the possibility of sudden death, of love and how it can end immediately with no prior warnings, of that minority of Army X coming back full circle to impermanence as its dressed in white waiting for the red to stain it once and for all.

I'm coming to terms with many things. Of them I love my hearts band, those trumpets, violins, string section, pizzicato overriding the electricity of the music, those flourishes of guitars, open chords, those sweeping voices riding the clouds on those darkest of nights, that band I'd like to call it Impermanence.

"Ence"

2010-09-14T23:18:00.000-07:00

Impermanence, like that wolf at the door, waiting to come in, wearing purple socks, grinding its teeth into the wood.
Transience, like that moment out of time, waiting to dissolve, wearing a feather hat, a minor threat that's no good.
Subservience, like that child on the edge, waiting to drop, wearing nature's clothes, coming crashing down like it should.

2010-09-13T21:48:00.000-07:00

A line,
The Radius of the Sun,

A circle,
The Heart of the Moon.

----

J-Ganther K and me meet again, the chain broken, two-day absence, hearts connect and as we look at Superman posing the only thing that came to our minds is Compon K (switching the amp before switching on the comp, primal f**kup, dislocated day), that secret language of the soul, uncontrolled breath, a sort of meditation finding its way, speaking in tongues bringing us closer than we could ever imagine.

2010-09-13T00:23:00.000-07:00

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.
----
Emily Dickinson

2010-09-12T05:19:00.000-07:00

A pink crayon, a white piece of paper, a ribbon, an eye, hundredhands and three-hundred thousand thoughts of love as they make patterns and shapes formed from a dream of a curious love, a memory of her face and the touch of her heart, her technicolour love, those 16.7 million colours...

The curve of the G

2010-09-11T00:20:00.000-07:00

I love the way light attaches itself to an object, how it makes the shapes change, the shadowtricks, those lemon yellow twelve'o'clock afternoons, lunch on nice plates, the black and grey diagrams forming abstract rhythms inside my head, those electro-beats decorating that cup of tea sonically, the first half of the poem suffused in idealism, that felicity and how inherently out of our grasps our most honest expressions are, that first ray of light as it enters the room, that first look of love, that first smile that keeps immediacy always waiting at the door, like a smiling wolf or maybe an amiable chromosome bear singing in the key of B-Flat minor, the way the sound appears and fills the room... fully...

The Paradox of Our Age

2010-09-09T21:35:00.000-07:00

We have bigger houses but smaller families;
More conveniences, but less time;
We have more degrees, but less sense;
More knowledge, but less judgment;
More experts, but more problems;
More medicines, but less healthiness;
We've been all the way to the moon and back,
but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.
We build more computers to hold more information to
produce more copies than ever but have less communication.
We have become long on quantity,
but short on quality.
These are times of fast foods but slow digestion;
Tall man but short character;
Steep profits but shallow relationships.
It's a time when there is much in the window,
but nothing in the room.
----
Dalai Lama
(Thankyou, D)

3,4,5,6,7,8,9 & The Age of Aquarius

2010-09-09T01:19:00.000-07:00

...and to think of those six nights, those seven days, that time, that sky, those walls, the colour and the shape of her eyes, the way she looked straight into my soul, the things she said, a kind of blue, the closeness, those lockups - options one to ninety nine, wine, of those light moments in the rain, eyes adrift in Mondy's, that comfort of black, the way the eyes see and only see, that thing we call time, the hands of time, its inconsistency, moments fluttering about like butterflies, the archaeology of dreams, that first wink, blinkety blinky blink, that first x on the sealink, cinematic moments for posterity, Xiva's third eye smiling as I miss my flight, extended glances into the night...

The Last Calligraphers

2010-09-07T00:48:00.000-07:00

The Last Calligraphers from Hinterland Films on Vimeo.

The Musalman (Urdu: مسلمان) is the oldest Urdu-language daily newspaper published from Chennai in India. It is an evening paper with four pages, all of which are handwritten by calligraphers, before being mass-produced with a printing press. According to the Wired and The Times of India, The Musalman is possibly the only "handwritten" newspaper in the world.

The newspaper was founded by Janab Syed Azmathullah Sahib in 1927. It was inaugurated by Dr. Mukhtar Ahmed Ansari, the president of the Madras session of the Indian National Congress. The newspaper's office has been located at the Triplicane High Road in Chennai.

After Janab Syed Azmathullah's death, the newspaper was edited by Janab Syed Fazullah sahib, who died on 26 April 2008, at the age of 78. In 2007, Fazullah had expressed fear that the calligraphy might die with him, since his sons were not interested in carrying on the calligraphy tradition. Fazullah's son, Syed Nasarulla, had stated that he has no interest in calligraphy, and "there will be changes", when he takes over.

The calligraphers, known as katibs, work in a little corner of a 800 sq. ft. one-room office. They don't have many facilities — only two wall fans, three bulbs and a tube light. As of 2008, the calligraphy team consists of one man and two women, who work almost three hours on each page of the hand-written newspaper. The hand-written product is processed onto a photo negative and mass-produced with a printing press.

The newspaper's office often hosts renowned poets, religious leaders and royalty, some of whom contribute to the pages.

The newspaper consists of four pages. The front page is for national and international news, the second and the third pages are for local news, and the fourth page is for sports. Some space is left blank at the bottom right corner of the front page, in case there is some breaking news.

As of April 2008, the paper is sold for 75 paise a copy, and has around 22,000 subscribers.

IF is the middle word of LIFE

2010-09-02T02:55:00.000-07:00

Death is close, very very close...and life is inherently and mysteriously out of our grasps.

"The Word" by Tony Hoagland

2010-09-01T01:58:00.000-07:00

Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,

between "green thread"
and "broccoli" you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."

Resting on the page, the word
is as beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend

and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning -- to cheer you up,

and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,

that also needs accomplishing
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds

of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder

or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue

but today you get a telegram,
from the heart in exile
proclaiming that the kingdom

still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,

- to any one among them
who can find the time,
to sit out in the sun and listen.

Time & other things...

2010-09-01T00:30:00.000-07:00

Night. Thoughts of time. Who decided on that pause and how long it should be, one second to the other. Why sixty seconds, why sixty minutes, why twenty-four hours? Because of the sun, because of the moon? Why anger, why grudge, why time sends its hands onto us with such aggression. And then all the puppets on the floor dancing to its rhythm trying to keep up with money & appointments. In the final earth, the redemption will be for the one who has no recollection, interest or concern for time. Its these puppets I am scared of most. These humans... the ones who live for time and money, those idiots who say "time is money" and those strangers I thought I knew. How way off the mark I am... how far out on the periphery I stand. Looking... its time to get away again.

And then I remembered the high points of the evening, Ji To Ke and his yellow-insulation tape on his temples, making him more oriental than he already is, the disgusting job of telling him about the disgusting job, that last analysis of Reverse Khan, Nimhans employees analysing that cigarette butt for hints and clues and that ongoing dream of Jigaanthar and me speaking in viscera, all gibberish, like the heart's air, like the Dara Okat monologues, that field of lilies and those 24 frames per hour of a mysterious face at sunset time...

I Think I Miss You

2010-08-31T00:25:00.000-07:00

I Think I Miss You (Music video) from Hinterland Films on Vimeo.

Official video for the Anxieteam song "I think I miss you". Shot by Saul Tiff, directed and conceptualised by Isaac Niemand & Premjit Ramachandran in Benaras, India.

Thoughts from a lunar night

2010-08-28T06:39:00.000-07:00

Unfolding like sheets of paper, Inspector Jigaanthar K and me head out into the night to meet Mr. Crasta. Cardigans blasting on the way, our heads finding kinetic energy shaping the thoughts from the moon's incessant delivery of light from behind the clouds, across the sky and into the black of that monsoon night, the snail that attached itself to a bill, how it tore off making the tear a snail-like shape, that moment when I said "I don't know who is driving this car", our flurry of thoughts in the treelined eighty feet road, less than hundredwords probably title for a label, Axl sending out positive energy, his love supreme. And love also from one mysterious girl living hundreds of miles away, shaping the mood for the moon and drawing her circles in my head.

2010-08-24T21:24:00.001-07:00

A coffee with DT in a red room full of lillies, David Lynch-style, a room trapped in an unimaginable time, beyond reason or faith, off the counters of human perception.

2010-08-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

Looking at Omkareshwar sideways.