Language of the Dead

Notes

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

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...

On "Exodus110"

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

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

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

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

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.

Back.
*Insert Grunge riff here* :)

To...

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

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...?"

Three-point trajectory (Development)

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

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"

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

...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

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

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

"The Word" by Tony Hoagland

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...

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

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

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.

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.

Looking at Omkareshwar sideways.

A Document of Some Things

Mandu captured, heart in full transition (translation), projecting these images on a stone wall, while I sit with Roopmati in Jahaz Mahal. Those vivid black elephants, Vinod, Pardeep, the boys of mandu, slow-motion shots of them dancing in ecstacy, of possible videos for Bonobo's Black Sands, running, dancing in those corridors of Dhariya Khan's tomb and Haathi Mahal, black and brown, one sun, one moon, brush boys living on the earth, cool spot boy Manish, his pointed boots, the look of local love for Japanese tourists, those two muslims, Yusuf Ali and Muranuddin, strange disposition of men who like watching porn together, their ongoing quest to kidnap me to Kaaliboudi and Khwaja ji's Dargah there, of the words I couldn't somehow trust, my instinct projecting snake-like forms on Maharaja's corridors, photographer from Ellora with his dhandhe ka machine, his life in Ellora (possible film about these instant photographers waiting in the terraces of these gorgeous places trying to make a living printing moments of every memory to take home and slip inside a book or use as a bookmark, maybe pin to the wall of those middle-class homes, his stoner eyes looking, a slight friendship, then foodtime and those Relax-point men, poha oh, Joyaho's roha, Mr. White, one hand in a bandage, greeting and being PR on the floor, the baby-face flashed onto the trading head, duality in focus, that drive from Mandu to Omkareshwar, Pappu bhai talking of stories and times in strange chipmunk voice, the soundtrack overriding the images of rolling meadows, tree-haircuts everywhere...and then onto Omkareshwar, Kailash Kher's "Babam bam" re-imagined by local DJ, everyone dancing, that machine that tells you the weight via video projection of strange man, black & white video, giving them a piece of his prediction. Lost in dictation, India is where the heart finds its way through the chaos, the dirt, the earth. India, Je'Taime (supported by the music of Black Sands)

And then I looked at the time, it was 11.11... publish post, D song.

Back in the plains, Ahmedabad and Baroda, the spirit of Doshi in my heart, his smile, his art of selflessness, of thoughts of travelling with him to Bhuj, shooting in the Rann of Kutch, the spirit of Smrutivan, then onto Baroda, screening of new films at the Faculty of Fine Arts, the soft light of Maneesha in her studio, those high ceilings, Doshi still smiling through the skylights, Vasu's wonderful sincerity, no superficiality, those sweet artschool girls and their avant-garde thoughts... and today I leave for Mandu waiting to hold my breath next to history shining light on the monsoon's way... time stand still, the time is now, the place is here. :)

Astral Projection

Today Daniel spoke of his meeting with Dr. Tripathi, "the scientist of enlightenment", of living on wheat and water for years, of Swami Devi, his Guru and astral projection.

----

Astral projection (or astral travel) is an interpretation of any form of out-of-body experience (OBE) that assumes the existence of an "astral body" separate from the physical body and capable of travelling outside it. Astral projection or travel denotes the astral body leaving the physical body to travel in the astral plane.

The idea of astral travel is rooted in common worldwide religious accounts of the afterlife in which the consciousness' or soul's journey or "ascent" is described in such terms as "an...out-of body experience, wherein the spiritual traveller leaves the physical body and travels in his/her subtle body (or dreambody or astral body) into ‘higher’ realms." It is therefore associated with near death experiences and is also frequently reported as spontaneously experienced in association with sleep and dreams, illness, surgical operations, drug experiences, sleep paralysis and forms of meditation.

It is also sometimes attempted for its own sake, or may be believed to be necessary to, or the result of, some forms of spiritual practice. It may involve "travel to higher realms" called astral planes but is commonly used to describe any sensation of being "out of the body"[8] in the everyday world, even seeing one's body from outside or above. It may be reported in the form of an apparitional experience, a supposed encounter with a doppelgänger, some living person also seen somewhere else at the same time.

Through the 1960s and 70s, surveys reported percentages ranging from 8% to as many as 50% (in certain groups) of respondents who state they had such an experience. The subjective nature of the experience permits explanations that do not rely on the existence of an "astral" body and plane. There is little beyond anecdotal evidence to support the idea that people can actually "leave the body".

The expression "astral projection" came to be used in two different ways. For the Golden Dawn and some Theosophists it retained the classical and medieval philosophers' meaning of journeying to other worlds, heavens, hells, the astrological spheres and other imaginal landscapes, but outside these circles the term was increasingly applied to non-physical travel around the physical world rather than the astral. Though this usage continues to be widespread, the "etheric travel" label coined by later Theosophists such as Leadbetter and Bailey[citation needed] is more appropriate to such scenarios.
Commonly in the astral projection experience, the experients describe themselves as being in a domain which often has no parallel to any physical setting, although they say they can visit different times and/or physical settings. Environments may be populated or unpopulated, artificial, natural or completely abstract and from beatific to horrific. A common belief is that one may access a compendium of mystical knowledge called the Akashic records. In many of these accounts, the experiencer correlates the astral world with the world of dreams. They report seeing dreamers enact dream scenarios on the astral plane, unaware of the wider environment around them. Some also state that "falling" dreams are brought about by projection. The astral environment is often theoretically divided into levels or planes. There are many different views concerning the overall structure of the astral planes in various traditions. These planes may include heavens and hells and other after-death spheres, transcendent environments or other less-easily characterized states.

In contrast to astral projection, etheric projection is described as the ability to move about in the material world in an etheric body which is usually, though not always, invisible to people who are presently "in their bodies." Robert Monroe describes this type of projection as a projection to "Locale I" or the "Here-Now", and describes it as containing people and places that he feels actually exist in the material world. Robert Bruce refers to a similar area as the "Real Time Zone" (RTZ) and describes it as the nonphysical, dimension-level closest to the physical.

According to Max Heindel, the etheric "double" serves as a medium between the astral and physical realms. In his system, the ether, also called prana, is the "vital force" that empowers the physical forms in order for that change to take place. From his descriptions it can be inferred that when one views the physical during an out-of-body experience, one is not technically "in" the astral realm at all.[34]

The subtle vehicle remains connected to the physical body during the separation by a so-called “silver cord”, said to be that mentioned in Ecclesiastes 12:6.

Stephen LaBerge suggested in his 1985 book Lucid Dreaming that all such "out-of-body experiences" may represent partially lucid dreams or "misinterpreted dream experiences", in which the sleeper does not fully recognize the situation. "In the dark forest, one may experience a tree as a tiger, but it is still in fact only a tree."

Kundalini Rising

Kundalini is a powerful energy that is within each one of us and some believe is the foundation of life itself, the Divine Mother Goddess, the life force of the universe that is present in all things. The ancient Yogis of India created Yoga to awaken Her power and devoted there entire lives to the cultivation and understanding of Kundalini. It has also been a part of many other ancient cultures and religions throughout history. Until recently only the privileged and spiritually adept had the knowledge of how to awaken the Kundalini or knew of the secrets of its power. But as we progress in this age of awakening, awareness and knowledge of this evolutionary energy is beginning to emerge and people all over the world are experiencing Kundalini Awakening. It is known by a variety of names in many different cultures but the Sages of India called it The Kundalini. In Sanskrit this literally means 'the curl of the hair' or 'coiled', it is usually envisaged as a sleeping serpent coiled and ready to be awakened and is sometimes referred to as 'Serpent Power'. It is also related to the Mother Goddess, Mother Nature or the Sacred Femine.

Once Kundalini is awakened an evolution of the mind, body and spirit occurs. Leading to a higher state of consciousness and spiritual awareness. With the emergence in the West of practices such as Reiki, Meditation and Yoga over the last century many more people have awakened this dormant power that is kept hidden within. When Kundalini rises it is essentially connecting the male and female energies and connecting the individual with the Divine consciousness although there are conflicting views on the process of awakening and it's purpose so it is important to understand that there are still many unanswered questions. It is a very individual and subjective experience dependant on one's karma and life experience.

Kundalini is located at the base of the spine between the Root and Sacral Chakras and lays dormant in most people, it is usually developed and awakened through spiritual practice but can awaken spontaneously in some people. Some say it is the life force energy that resides in all things, also know as prana or chi, others that it is the all powerful evolutionary energy that is hidden from us and must be cultivated to be awakened.

Strange Meeting: Daniel

Morning. Big bowl of dahi at PAPU. Israeli-looking indian girl talking of her life, and beside her the quiet, calm, stillness of Daniel, man from Israel. India-fanatic. Been in India five years, drawn to Shiva in places like Omkareshwar and Benaras. Musician. Thinker. Evening. Comes over. Play him the music of Indra Okat, he loves it. And then suddenly I ask him if he has had a kundalini experience. Somehow his mannerisms seemed to have a serpent-sorta bent. Yes. How how strange. He described the whole experience. Insane... of his head spinning like the hood of snake, of him holding that imaginary axis that controls the uncoiling, the way he read people's thoughts like subtitles, knowing exactly what they thought, of that mad season in Omkareshwar being drawn to Shiva power, connecting with Him, of Hathayoga, vipaasana and how funny Goenka was, of how he stared at ants and flies for eleven hours a day, of losing his mind in isolation in the beaches of Puri, of his Polish friend who also had a Kundalini awakening. I just sat and heard him talk...

Sabka Malik Ek: Monologue 1

When I met Sai Baba in the Spring of 2010, I had no idea who he was, what his story was or where he came from.. I wasn't equipped with a fancy camera, lights, mics…

When we met, there was an instant karmic connection. Like we were destined to meet. I had to document it. There and then. And to stay true to the material, the film is presented as simply as it was shot. I have tried to map a man's soul, his essence, a set of lessons from a man's life...

That spring in the Himalayas, I listened to Sai Baba talk, he made kawa (chai) and dinner for me. I was introduced to a life of acceptance, of happiness, of love and devotion, of sincerity… and in that seeing and being present, the I-carapace disappeared.

In Sai Baba I found a friend. For life.

From Kerala with love...

The Art of Toddy-Tapping from Hinterland Films on Vimeo.

Digital Split (pt. 1)

Research: Corpora Callosa

Benway

Of all good things, sun-yogi's, kundalini, the tobacco-death ceremony in the Andamans, living on that island next to the forbidden North Sentinel island, of tripping on acid in Gokharna and swimming with dolphins, of all things herbal, of all things organic, of the heart, of the soul, of the spirit. The Benway to life, englishman, organic farmer, dashal village, himachal pradesh, the heart of the hinterland rests in his eyes.

Faultline

A Time And A Place

Kerala Chapter

The Floating Man, , Wayanad, Kerala (2009)

The Floating Man from Hinterland Films on Vimeo.

----

Ghosts, Wayanad, Kerala (2009)

Ghosts from Hinterland Films on Vimeo.

Sabka Malik Ek

Psy-Baba now swooping down like a bird of prey. Video footage ensemble cast, silver-line, floating cloud. Sabka Malik Ek. See to the eye, catch to the mind. In his words. Later shot horses by the Beas grazing. Like being back in the lute ages. Synchronised serendipity, electric clock ticking backwards, a man out of time. Then, spring, then subodh, angry one-eyed baba, subodh's quiet friend ajith, the eeriness surrounding the dhuni at the temple, angry baba yelling, then subodh breaking into song "ye bhagwan ka maunder" and before that some light music to ease the atmosphere, "ud jaayega hans akela" and "papiha". Strange exposition, hand curling to venus-shape around neck, uncoiled or coiled serpent I don't know, I could only guess that he has a mind full of porcupines. And those strange scenes, three of us sitting one behind the other facing angry baba in silence, the 50-ruppee quarrel on scoring enough hash for one joint. The quiet chaos of the unsettled mind breaks through the unflinching leash of the winded soul.

And then it hit me…

Lamo

I can have moments crushed in turmeric paste, I can have the concept of infinity, the kinetic sumatra painting strange shapes in the sky, each one a different colour, a different tone, an ascent to the seventh.

You Can't Have It All - Barbara Ras

But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven year-old finger on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back. You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August, you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love, though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys until you realize foam's twin is blood.

You can have the skin at the center between a man's legs, so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind, glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness, never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who'll tell you all roads narrow at the border. You can speak a foreign language, sometimes, and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave where your father wept openly. You can't bring back the dead, but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts, for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream, the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand. You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed, at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.

You can't count on grace to pick you out of a crowd but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump, how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards, until you learn about love, about sweet surrender, and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you, you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept. There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother's, it will always whisper, you can't have it all,
but there is this.

1600, 050710, Hinterland

Pretty Ms. Magpie posed for me on film today. File under "Wildlife Analysis".

----

The Yellow-billed Blue Magpie or Gold-billed Magpie (Urocissa flavirostris) is a passerine bird in the crow and jay family,
Corvidae. It forms a superspecies with the Taiwan Blue Magpie and the Red-billed Blue Magpie. The species ranges from Pakistan to Burma with a disjunct population in Vietnam.

Blue upperparts with very long, graduated, black-and-white tipped tail. Separated from Red-billed by yellow-bill, and white on head, restricted to crescent on nape. Juvenile has olive-yellow bell. Broadleaved and coniferous forests. Resident; breeds 1800-3300m, winters down to 1000m.

Earth-realisation Pt. 1

Butterflies, apples, rain.
Apples with raindrops, pine's stretching through the passing clouds,
Those mountains, looking

I think there is emerging the need to document the nature in Hinterland using the music of Boards of Canada. Today morning I was shooting the apples in the rain as they get ready for the harvest. They look beautiful, half-red, half-yellow like that duality in man.

Strange Meeting: Mouli Marur

He spoke of locational micography, about moving the sound, about aurality as a means to typography, about the Chicago art scene, the need for an artists village in Naggar, a collaborative design programme that is art and sustainable at once. His name is Mouli Marur, Dean, Design Faculty, Art Institute Chicago which apparently houses the second largest collection of Renoir originals after Louvre. Strange meeting at Chai shop, Naggar. Chance, je taime. The visceral path is illuminated, Sumatra is home. x

Architecture

The architecture of an aunt
Made the child dream of cupolas,
Domes, other smoothly rounded shapes.
Geometries troubled his sleep.

The architecture of young women
Mildly obsessed the young man:
Its globosity, firmness, texture,
Lace cobwebs for adornment and support.

Miles from his aunt, the old child
Watched domes and cupolas defaced
In a hundred countries, as time passed.

A thousand kilometres of lace defiled,
And much gleaming and perfect architecture
Flaming in the fields with no visible support.

----

Dom Moraes
Thanks M.