Friday, April 28, 2006

IT'S FUCKING CHRISTMAS!

Guys, here's a list of books that guardian angel Harriet and the good man at the Royal Court bookshop sent us. Will let you all know as soon as they arrive!

1st package (Ram)
Mayorga: Way to Heaven
Crimp: Fewer Emergencies
Koohestami: Amid the Clouds
McDonagh: Beauty Queen of Leenane
Mitchell: Loyal Women
Stephens: Motortown
Williams: Harry and Me
Cartwright: Hard Fruit
Khan-Din: Last Dance at Dum Dum
Mamet: The Old neighbourhood
McPherson: Dublin Carol
Noren: Blood
Mitchell: The Force of Change

2nd package (Maia)
McPherson: The weir
Lucie: Shallow End
Hammerschlag: Backpay
Wertenbaker: Break of Day
Bean: Harvest
Elyot: Forty Winks
Donnelly: Bone
Motton: Worlds Biggest Diamond
Khan-Din: East is East
Brogan: What’s in the Cat
Oarks: Topdog/Underdog
Daley: Blest be the Tie

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Motortown

Here is a review of this play, which I agree entirely with. I have not seen anything so powerful for a long time. Some people could not take it, but on the whole it has been very well received. I have put the script in one of the packages and am just off to the post office now to mail them to India!
love to you all
H


MOTORTOWN

By Simon Stephens

21 April - 20 May

* * * *
Michael Coveney, Whats On Stage, 25 April 2006

The Royal Court has at last come up with a play on its main stage that is worthy of celebrating 50 years of the English Stage Company. Simon Stephens' Motortown charts a bleak homecoming and possesses three appropriate qualities: a monomaniac, psychotic hero in the vein of John Osbornes misfits; a deeply awkward post-Sarah Kane challenge to the liberal consensus on both domestic violence and war-mongering; and an obvious, rather brilliant, debt of honour to the first European working class tragedy, Georg Buchner's Woyzeck.

The motortown in question is not Detroit, but Dagenham in Essex, home of the Ford plant in Britain. Danny (Daniel Mays) is an ex-soldier who has served in Basra during the recent conflict. Like Woyzeck, he has had "extraordinary dreams", and he passes through the plays eight scenes (the running time is 95 minutes) in a trance of dislocation and despair.

His retarded, or autistic (we are not sure which), brother tells him his girlfriend (Daniela Denby-Ashe) does not want to see him after receiving weird letters. He goes to see her anyway. He acquires a gun. Another friend, whose teenage girlfriend, Jade (Ony Uhiara), he invites out, says that "9/11" should be a film, and that he would happily pay to see a show called "Bulger: the Musical." This reference to the murder of a child by other children was too much for some audience members, who left the first night noisily. But it makes a valid point about our desensitised attitude towards modern horrors and indeed the spiritual vulgarity that causes them.

Ramin Gray's superb production on a bare stage with a bank of visible lights and visible stage management has a beautiful choreography of chairs and movement that suggests an army drill routine. On the outing, Danny stabs Jade's hand with a cigarette then shoots her at point blank range. He stuffs her in a body bag, leaving the stage covered in blood.

As the other actors mop up like an Olympic curling team, Purcell's ineffably sad and glorious "Didos Lament" fills the theatre. An encounter with a free-spirited, colourless middle-class couple in a Southend hotel - Danny is invited to join them for sex - completes one helluva day. In Basra, he says, he never abused a prisoner: "Its just you come back to this."

As a picture of a personality in freefall, Daniel Mays performance is quite extraordinary: supple, aggressive, fearless, disturbing. And Stephens who won the Olivier best play award for last year On the Shore of the Wide World at the National has written an instant modern classic, the first major ant-anti-war play of this era.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

quickie

Glad you are pleased about the books! Will do as Ram and Maia suggest and split between the two of them. Motortown was amazing -- will say more later about this play -- incredibly powerful. I will include the script in one of my packages.
Isn't the internet amazing? I feel so close to you all even tho so far away.
H

Sup Y'all?

hello girlses and boyses

am really looking forward to august... cant wait to see how you guys are getting along...

wanted to know what you guys think of david mamet's speed the plow... anyone read it? i'm thinking of doing it next... just wanting to see what people think of it first.. am still waffling a bit, so some perspective would be nice... been thinking of it for a while but not settled on it yet...

catch you guys later..

and ram... wasssssuuuupppppp...........

present, sir

Ram is a man with a mission. Hounded my ass into posting too, I was just keeping quiet for lack of anything particularly interesting to say.

I went to Chennai for a few days to watch Tim Supple's Midsummer Night's Dream. I'd built up huge expectations over the last few months, all of which came crashing down when I actually watched it. Lots of beautiful people doing impressive physical stunts but I didn't have a single theatrical wow moment.

The last Shakespeare I saw was Complicite's Measure for Measure, which I thought was brilliant. But that had been ruthlessly edited to suit the director's interpretation, which I think was a good thing. Otherwise in Shakespeare people stand around spouting dialogue endlessly.

Ram, what the hell is this supposed to mean?

"I'm beginning to believe that at the end of the day, theater at its most extreme, can only rely on the presence of the live performer. Film wins hands down, on almost all other fronts."


That's all for now. Of course I've carefully avoided any mention of the play I'm supposed to write.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Helloo Writerses

Good to know that there's a Writers Blog happening this time around. People, keep the coming and I hope to see all of you in August.

Much Love
Zafar

Blogs are us

Helloo Peopleses.
Good to know that there's a Writer's Blog this time around. Good to keep hearing from you guys...
Keep the posts coming, and I hope to see you all in August.
Ciao Bella's and Chicas

: )
Zafar

a writer on writing

I'm going to see this play, Motortown, tonight. The playwright was one of the tutors on the RCT Young Writers Programme.
http://enjoyment.independent.co.uk/theatre/features/article357516.ece
And I suppose you all saw this one?
http://cities.expressindia.com/fullstory.php?newsid=178628
H

want some plays to read?

I was at the Royal Court bookshop last week and was telling the bookshop manager how hard it is for you writers in India to get hold of the texts of new plays. He is a nice man and he told me to come back later, which I did, and found he had put together a good collection of plays -- about 20, I think -- which he gave me for free and asked me to send to you people. So I would like to do this but am not sure who to mail them to. Should I do two packages, one for Bombay and one for Bangalore and let you arrange swopping and distributing (also of course to other far flung places)? Or should I just send to one person who would do it all? I don't have any of your mailing addresses, but if you would like these plays, let me know what seems the most sensible way of doing it.
H

The Process

On the Borderline

As part of its 50th birthday celebrations, the Royal Court joins forces with the BBC writers' room to launch THE 50, a mentoring scheme for 50 writers nominated by theatres from across the UK. Here Hanif Kureishi speaks about his 1981 play, Borderline, based on the concerns of London's Asian community - riots, fascists, feminists.

Saturday April 22, 2006, The Guardian

It was with some trepidation that I looked again at Borderline, a play I wrote in 1981.

The Royal Court Theatre, where it was originally presented, wanted to mount a reading of it, as part of the celebrations to mark the company's 50th anniversary this month. My father was alive in 1981, and sat enthusiastically through many performances, laughing at everything, particularly at the character of the father, who rather resembled him. Now, 20 years later, two of my sons, aged 12, were present. I couldn't help wondering what it would mean to them - or indeed anyone, now.

The original director, Max Stafford-Clark, whose idea the play was, had worked often with Joint Stock, a touring company started by David Hare and Bill Gaskill with the intention of getting political theatre out of London. Max told me the play would be cast, the research done in Southall - an immigrant area of west London - and then I would write it. This was political theatre, emerging from the turbulent, radical intensities of the 1970s.

For me the Joint Stock process had been frantic, if not hair-raising. The actors and theatres had been hired; everything was in place, but the play had not been written, not a word of it, and we were to start rehearsing in six weeks. I was just beginning to find out whether I could be a writer or not, trying to find a subject, characters, and words for them to say. I was already learning a lot from the directors I worked with, and from the actors: as they began to speak, the clumsiness of the lines was obvious. Fortunately, I was hard-working then, with a fierce ambition.

The play did get written. It also got rewritten. This, I saw, was when the real work began. If I'd had too "pure" a view of the artist, I was soon to learn that aesthetic fastidiousness wasn't a helpful attitude. Max was severe and precise, sending me into a dressing room with instructions to write a scene about so-and-so, with certain characters in it. I rewrote as we rehearsed; I rewrote as we played it around the country; I rewrote it when we opened at the Royal Court, and after that. This was the first time I'd worked in such a way and it was an important proficiency to develop.

To my surprise, looking at the play again after more than 20 years, I was not startled either by the naivety of the piece, or by the nature of my personal preoccupations then. The play itself was written out of the 1970s and at each stage the question would have to be asked: how does this scene, or these lines, further the cause, not only of the play, but of the social movement we are pursuing? What are we saying, about Asians, women, the working class; how do we push the argument along?

Monday, April 24, 2006

Interesting reading

Thought this would make interesting reading.

http://www.adishaktitheatrearts.org/research.htm
(Love her views on hybridity and inclusion in the last piece.)

I'm beginning to believe that at the end of the day, theater at its most extreme, can only rely on the presence of the live performer. Film wins hands down, on almost all other fronts.

How does one then navigate this as a writer? Tricky. The perils of the medium...

Loved this cover!



There's a story to go with this at www.alternet.org on the White House's resident moron. It's a great site to check out every now and then anyway - regular contributions or excerpts from Naomi Klien, Vandana Shiva, Arundhati Roy, John Pilger and the like.

Forrest Gump's Evil Twin

Saturday, April 22, 2006

words from across the world

Hello all you writers. I'm sitting in my house in England, where spring is just getting going -- very late this year. It has been very cold and wet but now at least the sun is shining and there are daffodils and tulips in the garden. I have spent the morning transferring all my camcorder clips to the computer, which meant I could see you all once again in Vasind. Some very happy memories there. I also have some nice photos which I will post when I figure out how -- most of you will have had one or two from me by email already. I've started transcribing the interviews I did with you all at the beginning and the end, and will probably at some stage ask you each to check them over, add (or subtract) from them etc.
I am planning my life around a trip to India in August -- so, if there is another workshop I will be there. If not I will try to visit some at least of you in Bombay or wherever. This time I will make sure I have travelling time there, too.
Royal Court anniversary celebrations were fun, more so than I expected. I was very nervous as I had to sit on the stage and talk, but it went OK, and then I sat for ages signing my autobiography which came out on that day. All rather exciting, really.
Take care and keep writing. love
H

Long Time

I have had to work hard on this. Also call up a very irritated Ram early in the morning because I just couldn't log in. Turns out I had forgotten my password.
Sorry Maia and Manjima. Turning 43 has little merit- But it would have been worthwhile if I had known two beautiful and intelligent women were wishing me on that day. Thank you.
Manjima, I am landing up in Delhi tomorrow and am around until thursday. One number corporate assignment. I was wondering if we could meet up. Apart from the writing, I also wanted to speak to you about the work you do. A lot of it seems very interesting. And I was wondering if we can do something from Bangalore to help you in your development work. I would give you a call when I am in Delhi.
Rajiv, Keep in touch da. Strange though it may sound- I miss you sometime.
Shiv, good to hear from you. I am starting work on a film script soon and was hoping I can seek support and inspiration from you whenever I am stuck. You are right about the process. I thoroughly enjoyed the Royal Court workshop process.

Boss, you and I have lived long enough to know that if we write a play and if it is important for us, we would stage it. But it is not an ideal situation. I feel writers should just write and someone should respect that work enough to give it the widest possible exposure. All our struggles seem worthwhile if the new generation of writers have a better deal than us. It would be nice to have my statement interpreted in that light- inadequate and inarticulate as I am.
Ira, Ram tells me you are in Bangalore between May 9-13. May 12th is the launch of my first novel at Oxford Book Store at 6.30 p.m. Afterwards my wife and I are hosting a small party for close friends. You must attend both. Maia and Kunal are coming to read. Then there's Ram, Ajay and me from Bangalore. Unfortunately Swar is leaving or must have left for Manipur by now. So she isn't around. But the rest of us can have a mini Vasind and after the party play Uno.
The invitation is being extended to all writers, actors, organizers who are in Bangalore on that particular day. If a friend from the workshop decides to surprise me on that day it would make my day.
Now- Haircut!

shiv

i think i'm in. this is a damn exciting blog. Ram, I think you're rocking. Two of my favourite writers, Jack Kerouac and Louis L`Amour wrote only first drafts. Never revised, except for the odd fact. Fancy that. You know, Vijay, I don't think it's the shows, I think it's the rehearsal. It's the process. The rest is halva. And Swar and Maia, as reluctant as you are in opening out your play, I'm terrified at the prospect of having to read it. Hey Rahul, finished your play ?

Friday, April 21, 2006

Pictures from Harriet!

DUNNO IF EVERYBODY GOT THESE...?

Composition

Ok. This is dangerously close to an intellectual wank but I'm going to hazard it.

I'm fascinated by musicians. Of late - masters of the electric guitar - I've been listening to G3 - and Joe Sat, Malmsteen and Vai are frying all my circuits. I think playwriting is quite close to music in that it is 'composition' and not 'literary' writing. Ok, that's a real can of worms. Screw it.

Of late I've become more and more interested in the 'force of sound' in a play. (Like I've just discovered that the 'pretty but gone' beat is like an arpeggio. )

A friend of mine saw a show of DoG and commented - 'I could feel a music to the play.'
Is this music inherent, or can you modify it with practice? Can you consciously refine it?

At this point I have Crab close to being pinned and I'm thinking, what do I want to do?
Do a Joe Sat - beautiful and free flowing stuff, smelling of freedom and running in the rain - extremist?
Do a Vai - weeping and wailing contortions that bleed n tear flesh and fingernails off - whispering a prayer?
Do a Malmsteen - relentless turbonitro speed speed speed fucking technical classical madness - trilogy suite op. 5, the first movement?

Hrm... anu is going to kill me if she sees this.

Finally!

Ram has been hounding me to post something on the blog and finally, here I am. It is amazing to see people moving on when I still haven't completely managed to recover from my 'Oh vasind!' phase. So at the moment I have nothing profound to contribute. But now that I've begun, I'll get a little more articulate as I go along. Coping with life in bombay sucks as much as it possibly could. With the kind of space I've been able to spare for my writing, I think some quality time away from the city might do wonders in terms of free flowing creative juices.....wishful thinking, I guess. Anyway, gotta go. Will stay posted from now on. :-)

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

writersblog06: Contact!

Contact!

I come here almost obsessively at least once a day, in an admittedly lame attempt to 'hang out' with you beloved idiots and recapture a little bit of Vasind.

But it's been so quiet the last couple of days.

Are you all writing feverishly?

Is there anybody out there?

Monday, April 17, 2006

If you've never read her, do!

Muriel Spark, whose spare and humorous novels made her one of the most admired British writers of the postwar years, died in Tuscany on Saturday. She was 88.

Spark wrote more than 20 novels, including "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie," which was later adapted for a Broadway hit and a movie.

Gail Wylie, chairman of the Muriel Spark Society, said Spark was "avant-garde in her time."
"She took the conventions of English narrative and turned them upside down," Wylie said.

"The Girls of Slender Means," considered by many to be her best novel, drew on her own experience as a young woman struggling to make ends meet while writing in London. "I was literally starving," she once said. "It was awful. I had nothing to eat."

Novelist Graham Greene gave her a monthly allowance and some wine when she was poverty-stricken, on condition that she would neither thank him nor pray for him.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Birthdays, etc

Hey Vijay, sorry I couldn't wish you yesterday. Couldn't go online yesterday. Hope you had a great day and did everything you've been wanting to do for a while. High on my own list of priorities are sleep, some more sleep and most of all, sleep.
Today is a happy day in my life. Yesterday was poila boishakh, new year's day for all the bongs of the world, and my elder sister and I got together and made some gorgeous bong food for everyone. The taste of the Komlalebur payesh (read orange-flavoured kheer) still lingers on my tongue...
And today the pils are leaving! Finally! After fifteen gut-fucking days, they are off. Hopefully for a really long time, and I'm seriously planning my next vacation out of town to correspond with theirs. Shernaz can we please plan the next workshop around the independence day? There's a Friday we can take off and the Monday too, and that would spare me having to quit my job just now!
Bye Mad Roommate aka Bem. Have a fantastic time with Chorus. We're all waiting for the utterly gobsmacking script you're going to give us when we meet again. Drink the rest of the world under the table, fly cable cars across the hills and dream up many more fabulous scenes!

PS: Ram, what do you mean the snap broke? Which one, and how? Ye gads....

Ole man Vijay's day


Happy Birthday, dude. All good things to you.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Manjima's Camera Pics

Hi.

More pics for all!

(Manjima, 1 snap was broken, so I have only 21)

I have decided to organise a small caption writing competition.
The competition invloves writing better captions for the pics on this blog.

The winner gets to have the winning picture and caption displayed online on a BLOG!

(Also everyone wish Vijjay a HAPPY BIRTHDAY today!!!)

Thanks.

Homeward Bound

just seven more hours and i am homeward bound. after three and a half years. now, before the sympathy dose doles out, lemme warn you all that its mostly work and more work thats gonna happen. a bit of holiday squeezed in between. i wanna convince myself that i am gonna work and work because i want to feel like a hardworking, normal being instead of the lazy lump of corruption that i am.

for anyone interested in my itinerary, i am taking lalbagh express from b'lore to chennai; howrah mail from chennai to kolkata; jet airways from kolkata to imphal. this itinerary shall remain unchanged for many months or years to come whenever i wanna go to imphal from bangalore. the change shall come when i earn more and have less time. if i still earn less and have less time (unlike now when i am earning peanuts and having gallons of time), i shall not go to imphal.

i have written only two more scenes. that makes it a total of four scenes. my personal deadline is mid-may for the first draft. m very ambitious right now as you can see. what i make of this ambition next week is god's guess.

ram's show went real decent, after those social wrestling at the death of dr. rajkumar. it rained today! what pleasure, me tell you. when it rains and trees don't fall like beer glasses from butterfingers. i went pubbing. had tomahawk. on my left, one girl didn't want to play granny to her boyfriend's best pal. on my right, another wanted to save at least five grand a month but couldn't. i was wondering whether we can have cable cars running from the tip of prestige towers to vidhana soudha's. whiskey does this to me.

i really, really wanna come to vasind this august. can somebody find out if i am an heiress to a dying tycoon's private jet? the dough from the flying object should be able to pick up the total tab of a week's workshop for everybody, right? laundry included.

ta ta, people. write, write and write. dream, dream and dream. bizarre. magnanimous. eastman color. true man color. all colors. dolby sound. surround sound.

Friday, April 14, 2006

2 a.m. Saturday

SCENE

I am sick of this play says The Writer.

He is dressed in a white toga on which is painted, 'VOTE FOR SATYADEV DUBEY, MP' (ref. Ira's very funny story about Dubey saab told after Tai chi class over coffee. at 7 a.m. Want to hear story and more like this come to Tai Chi class, Rs.3000 for beginners)

It's your lot, it's your parking lot! say Tyre Burning Window Smashing Chorus. (dark skinned, also in togas)

Rustom jerks like a puppet on strings.

(Hug a tree, hug a tree, quickly)

Eiga screams and menstruates wildly, tortured by an empty Bisleri bottle.

Crab scuttles across stage, clutching carabiner, juggling dates with two women and rapist.

Dust motes float on Bush's upside down picture, women put on lipstick and dodge South Indian accents.

Artist copulates wildly with 2 women. 2 D Painting gets toe-curling sex (lucky bitch, what about the rest of us!)

I give up! says writer. Everybody's mad. I'll write a novel instead.

Voice of God: It's 2 a.m.! Don't even try.

Enter mother: Dinner?

(Note the influence - I've just finished reading Evam Indrjit...superb...why did nobody bring Sircar up at the workshop?)

No! says protagonists (aka writer)

Enter Manasi, read Manaswini, dripping chlorinatied swimming pool water.

She intones: Sex?

No! says protagonists (aka writer)

End scene.

I'm drunk.

Is this allowed? Can Writer's Blog be so desecrated?

Who cares?

Why do I write this rubbish at 2 am? Why does one write anything?

At least I'm drunk.

What's your excuse?

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Scene Structure

Manjima madam,
Luckily (or otherwise) in Proof of Love, the scenes have always been clear:
The funeral and setting up of the task. Then 2 scenes each, present and past, with the three women in his life. And finally the 'reporting back with proof to the powers that be' scene.
But then this whole new guy popped up, unplanned, but I think now perhaps the most critical scene in the play.
That was the only scene for which I attempted something approaching a structure before I actually sat down to write. The outline went something like this:
A public place at 2 a.m. Rustom meets other ghosts. Is taught a few operational basics and is 'acclimatized'. He must learn 1) The power of music, 2) The power of thought, 3) His ability to see in time as well as space. He must learn all these without any of them being obviously taught. Tone and texture of the scene must serve to ease the way from the fun and lightness of the funeral to the relatively dukhi quality of his scenes with his women.
I found it helped me to do this outline, sketchy though it is. The scene is still in progress, so this may all end up total bumph in hindsight.
Hope this helps. I think eventually, as Ram said, whatever works for you.

Shot in the kneecaps

Hi all... B'lore is shutting down fast.
Dr. Rajkumar has passed away. City is showing signs of unrest.
Will keep you posted on ground reality. B'lore ppl take care.

Humility, and the art of script maintenance

"I have recently acknowledged that two of my most important learnings through the process of rewriting are Humility and Courage.

I don't know how much of each I possessed before; but I do know that the more I write (actually the more I rewrite), the more I gain them.

Humility - to be able to accept one's complete incompetence and ability to weave and paint,
Courage - to be able to ruthlessy decimate one's own creation - in some ways like infanticide

Humility - to use the magic wand of vision to look at the script with mercenary eyes, see what it gives you and reject it if it doesn't give any,
Courage - to use the magic wand of the backspace key to operate the cursor, and watch what you created not so song ago blurring into the white background of the MS Word document

Humility - to know that you aren't there, yet,
Courage - to know that you can get there, soon.

It is a paradoxical feeling - a moment of despair, a moment of elation.

Despair, at having destroyed something that took you hours of effort, thought and soul.
Elation, at having finally created what you wanted to.

A discovery, moments in time."

-Swami Jeevacharya, circa 2006.


PS: They say that Jauhar was cowardice; then some say that it was bravery. I choose the latter.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

More pictures!

Suddenly remembered other people had cameras too.
Manjima, for instance.
Where are they,
It might be just what some of us need to put the lead back in our pencils (cheee!)
Come on then, children. Look sharp!

Ideas for a Twilight World

Don't think you should worry overly about the visual or aural creation of the world of the dead in the script itself. That's perhaps something for the director to enjoy, though you could do something which distinguishes him by nuance or inflexion, for example.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Admin

Hi
There are still member invites pending, but I do believe some of you are having trouble acccessing the blog.
If you have accessed the blog externally, you can view this entry, but cannot post.
Do mail me at ramgankam@yahoo.com from a working e-mail id and I'll send you an invite immediately.
I'm enclosing the ids that the invite was sent to.
Thanks.

kunaalroykapur@hotmail.com 2006-04-09 20:37:24.796 pending
trishlap@msn.com 2006-04-09 20:38:18.34 pending
manaswini.lr@gmail.com 2006-03-31 09:02:36.906 pending
zafarkara@gmail.com 2006-04-09 20:38:18.466 pending
shivsub@gmail.com 2006-04-09 20:43:14.33 pending
kundalkar@yahoo.com 2006-03-31 09:03:18.266 pending
ayeshamraza@yahoo.com 2006-04-09 20:37:24.733 pending
krushnarajit@rediffmail.com 2006-04-09 20:43:14.086 pending
rahul@dacunha.in 2006-04-09 20:43:14.003 pending

Ground control to Major Tom

hello ladies and germs... nice to see we are all playing nice... am quite impressed with all of you.. first writer's bloc thats had a blog... o the times they are a changing..

will be in touch.. blog on... may the blog be with you... blog and let blog..

Wtf!

A month before the 'pretty but gone' scene on the terrace...

Z finally agrees to go trekking with Rocky. Rocky cleverly wears steel-tipped Cats and promptly gets so exhausted that they have to stop every 5 minutes to rest. They begin snapping at each other and eventually it becomes a fight over Jojo.

Rocky thinks that Z treats Jojo like shit. Z thinks that Rocky is in no position to comment. Rocky say that Jo's his cousin and that he has every right to protect her. Z says that after raping Jo it would be pretty dumb to try to protect her. Rocky goes beserk with that accusation - he got her pregnant by mistake. 'That's not what Jo said' says Z. Verbal deadlock. Rocky snaps...

Rocky starts pushing Z around. Z jujitsu-pins him and gets him subdued. Rocky is humiliated. Z walks away disgusted. Rocky slips the carabiner on his fist and whacks Z on the base of his neck, taking him down. Snarls. Fumes. Spits and growls his anger. Crushes Z's bad hand with his boot, breaks all his fingers. Screams - "You don't love her!" and kicks Z in the ribs till he coughs blood. End of scene.

Did Rocky rape Jojo? Is Jo lying? Is Z really in love with Jo or just plain stupid?

... ... ...

Frankly I haven't a clue. What's wrong with these people??? Any takers? God help me.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Writers’ Bloc nonsense rhyme.

Swar’s pretty river paints a picture of a close, yet faraway place
Asif – the quiet thinker on stage – in cricket a terror with his pace.

Cricket - a hot topic for Rahul, hotter than even Mandira
Only outdone by Manu’s fixation on the honeymoon bra.

Rumour has it that a funny writer called Anuvab exists
But where is he ? Apart from telling us that the Yanks are the pits.

Sachin’s poignant film remains, with a tender aftermath
Now all of you know Rajit’s the man to give you a good bath.

Rajiv’s couch potatoes, with no such luck, vegetate and gather flab
And after Ram’s monologue, we’ll think twice ‘fore we order our next crab.

Ira’s adman revels in his insecurity, it would seem,
As does Vijay’s Zaheera, like dust motes on her sun beam

Ajay, with his look of eternal bliss, creates conversations canine
Manjima’s characters full of love and hate – but underneath, are they fine?

Maia takes us deeper, telling us Parsi stories through a ghost,
And now let the credits roll, start with the Jindals - a wonderful host.

To thank the actors for the hard work I think the playwrights will agree
They’re slogging it out the whole day – we just sleep since we’re free.

To the ‘Senior Batch’ of playwrights, thanks much in advance
You’re going to have to put up with junk; Escape, while you still have the chance.

Harriet – thanks for the company and the useful insights in between
Fantastic work at the Royal Court – cheers to the family Devine.

Phyllida and Carl, for showing us the action of writing – Thank you
We promise no more obstacles, we’ll raise the stakes high, for us and you.

Thank you Shernaz for putting this together and all 3 of you at Rage
Come January and hopefully 13 plays will set alight the Mumbai Stage.

Ideas for a twilight world...

Proof of Love's 12 scenes have kind of imploded into 8, and it appears that the content of my play is now on the table.
Now for the hard part.
Immediately on re-reading, a flaw is apparent. The play is set in the world of the living. But the journey is Rustom's and he is dead.
(Guys, I hope I'm not being arrogant in assuming you all remember who Rustom is and what the play is about?)
And since he is dead, I need to write the world of the dead. Or rather, that twilight world of the dead still floating around the boundaries of the living.
I need to write the emotion, geography and physics of that world. What does music sound like? Are there colours there? Can energy be seen and not just felt? If a dead man cannot be seen and heard, can he at least be felt? Can he cry? Does he shit? Can he see inside your head?
I don't know anything about this world obviously, but then, neither does the audience or anyone else.
So it is an exercise in pure imagination.
My dad, who was in a two month coma five years ago, and literally came back having to learn to walk and write and speak again, gave me this gem: A dead man is always where his last thought was.
Any ideas for this twilight world - random, crazy (the crazier the better, I suspect), illogical, mythological, physiological ideas - welcome.
I'm fucking terrified. How do you guys do this on a regular basis?

writersblog06

writersblog06 Sunday Morning Ruminations
Bangalore has never been so hot. And I have a class at 11 a.m. Two of my filmmaker friends are offering a short course on film making and I have to go through all the shooting scripts the students have prepared and help them with stuff like plot, theme and sub text. I had a look at some of them last night- all of them seem interesting. Woman with schizophrenia, a train getting stolen, rape in a chemistry lab and new servant girl learning her place in the house. The unexpected bonus of attending the Vasind workshop was Sachin's film. Taught me a lot about short films and powerful visuals. I would keep going back to it while doling out feedback today. Thanks Man!
Write a weekly column for a Bangalore based political tabloid. The editor has received virulent letters protesting against what I write about the theatre establishment. He got an especially vicious one last week and asked me to meet him. Last evening I put on my most rebellious martyr like face and went all prepared with a speech on how I would always fight for the truth.
"Keep it up Vijay," he said. " We need more columns like yours. At least people are reading it."
Life is like that.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Vomiting like a pro

To think that even letting go potentially has form... Yeesh... I've gone terminal.
Listening to Gorillaz. Its HOT!
And here's a piece from the genuine fruit cake himself.

Essentials of Spontaneous Prose
by Jack Kerouac

SET-UP
The object is set before the mind, either in reality. as in sketching (before a landscape or teacup or old face) or is set in the memory wherein it becomes the sketching from memory of a definite image-object.
PROCEDURE
Time being of the essence in the purity of speech, sketching language is undisturbed flow from the mind of personal secret idea-words, blowing (as per jazz musician) on subject of image.
METHOD
No periods separating sentence-structures already arbitrarily riddled by false colons and timid usually needless commas-but the vigorous space dash separating rhetorical breathing (as jazz musician drawing breath between outblown phrases)--"measured pauses which are the essentials of our speech"--"divisions of the sounds we hear"-"time and how to note it down." (William Carlos Williams)
SCOPING
Not 'selectivity' I of expression but following free deviation (association) of mind into limitless blow-on-subject seas of thought, swimming in sea of English with no discipline other than rhythms of rhetorical exhalation and expostulated statement, like a fist coming down on a table with each complete utterance, bang! (the space dash)-Blow as deep as you want-writeas deeply, fish as far down as you want, satisfy yourself first, then reader cannot fail to receive telepathic shock and meaning-excitement by same laws operating in his own human mind.
LAG IN PROCEDURE
No pause to think of proper word but the infantile pileup of scatological buildup words till satisfaction is gained, which will turn out to be agreat appending rhythm to a thought and be in accordance with Great Law of timing.
TIMING
Nothing is muddy that runs in time and to laws of time-Shakespearian stress of dramatic need to speak now in own unalterable way or foreverhold tongue-no revisions (except obvious rational mistakes, such as names or calculated insertions in act of not writing but inserting).
CENTER OF INTEREST
Begin not from preconceived idea of what to say about image but from jewel center of interest in subject of image at moment of writing, and write outwards swimming in sea of language to peripheral release and exhaustion-Don ot after think except for poetic or P. S. reasons. Never after think to"improve" or defray impressions, as, the best writing is always the most painful personal wrung-out tossed from cradle warm protective mind-tap from yourself the song of yourself, blow!-now!-your way is your only way-"good"-or"bad"-always honest ("ludi- crous"), spontaneous, "confessionals' interesting, because not "crafted." Craft is craft.
STRUCTURE OF WORK
Modern bizarre structures (science fiction, etc.) arise from language being dead, "different" themes give illusion of "new" life. Follow roughly outlines in out fanning movement over subject, as river rock, so mind flowover jewel-center need (run your mind over it, once) arriving at pivot, where what was dim-formed "beginning" becomes sharp-necessitating "ending"and language shortens in race to wire of time-race of work, following laws of Deep Form, to conclusion, last words, last trickle-Night is The End.
MENTAL STATE
If possible write "without consciousness" in semi-trance (as Yeats'later "trance writing") allowing subconscious to admit in own uninhibited interesting necessary and so "modern" language what conscious art would censor, and write excitedly, swiftly, with writing-or-typing-cramps, inaccordance (as from center to periphery) with laws of orgasm, Reich's "beclouding of consciousness." Come from within, out-to relaxed and said.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Manjima's Verbal Diarrhoea and other stories

Writers' Bloc: Muse for playwrights

Mumbai: Indian writers in English have earned their place in the world, and soon Indian playwrights may get centrestage.
The Rage Theatre Company compromising actor Rajit Kapur, theatre director Rahul da Cunha and theatre artist Shernaz Patel are organising workshops called Writers' Bloc which will encourage people to write plays."We have always had English theatre being associated with what is done on Broadway or on West End. We do not really have our own writing to perform in English. And that is really how the thought and the idea began," Kapoor says.
The workshops will infuse new blood in Indian theatre, say the organisers.And for that help is coming in. Carl Miller from the Royal Court Theatre of UK and leading British director Phyllida Lloyd are giving participants tips on how to write."We're trying to give the writers the tools with which to shape what comes into their minds and their imagination into something which works as a play," Miller says.
Good plays will get a stage and the plays of 12 participants, who range from bankers, filmmakers and first-time writers, Writers' Bloc will be staged at the Writers' Bloc Theatre Festival.
"As writers we have a tendency for verbal diarrhoea, so the basic idea is to be able to channelise that and to economise it in such a way that it becomes most effective without it being seen as too little," Manima Chatterjee, a workshop participant, says."We've got creative abilities and we are putting that out on paper. The ability to look back at it and assessing whether it is actually conveying what we want to convey is the key take-away," says another participant Rajiv Rajendra.

Development etc.

Hey Maia, what a great article that was. Even as I write here, right outside my office off Parliament Street, activists of the Narmada Bachao Andolan are on hunger strike on the streets. Medha Patkar has been arrested and taken away to the All India Institute of Medical Sciences, but Bhagvatiben on her 9th day is still going strong. This after the Home Minister told them to their faces that he doesn't have land to give them where they can relocate. Yet the dam's height is being raised. Despite the Supreme Court's order that people need to be relocated at least a year in advance of a possible flooding. The monsoons are a month away, and the dam is being raised. And a bunch of strong, stubborn, heroic people are fighting it out with the various governments of India to gain control of the land into which they were born. Ironic, isn't it?
Our little band of kids and adults will perform for them tomorrow evening. Because that is all they asked us to do and we don't have much more to give. We turn out on the streets to show solidarity. But what else do we have to give?
It is worth more than a thought though, what we are willing to sacrifice in the name of development. In Manipur some women demonstrate in the nude, in Andhra and Vidharbha the farmer who feeds the country registers his protest by giving up his life and in front of a centuries' old time piece and observation centre, some tribal women from Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh vie for space with the victims of Bhopal gas tragedy to have their rights by the most legal means possible. They have been fighting for twenty years.What more can we do?
I often think theatre should be the media through which I can register my protest and yet I wonder--do i have the ability, or the voice, to be heard? That is why Swar's effort is so laudable. She is speaking not only from her heart, but for her people and the injustices they suffer every day at the hands of givers of the law. She has the strength and clarity of voice to speak up. I am yet to find it. But I am searching, now with new tools to aid expression. I hope I will be able to speak someday, the way that I want to be able to speak. To say the things that ring in my head and make it almost impossible to breathe, at times. I don't know honestly if that will happen by June, but I see this as a strong step taken in the right direction. And its wonderful to know that you guys are with me as I stumble along.

The parent speaks

Okay, so I finally got into the blog and its just brilliant. I read all of them including the comments...whoever had this idea is a genius! Thank you! Its great to know that everyone is writing and I really urge you to connect with the senior writer assigned to you. Maia maybe you could send your 12 scenes to Shiv for feedback...if your ready to that is. Anyway I guess each of you will figure out your own way of doing this so I shall stop being the parent especially 'cos I'm not a writer!
I have to say that a comment posted here on the earlier festival was disturbing because it said that there were patronising standing ovations and house full shows and none of the plays had a run except Rahuls because the audience did not connect with a lot of the plays. I just want to say that this is entirely UNTRUE! And you can read over a dozen critics comments to know that I'm not making this up! Besides plays like Sandesh's Pahila Vahila, Shiv's Clogged Arteries, Aruna's Chor Chor, ran for ten or more shows after the festival was over. So please, I urge you, do not write anything to please an audience...sure you need to communicate with them...but if you write with the end result in mind I think you will be doing yourself a great injustice. At least that is completely against everything that Writers Bloc stands for. And if there is a worry that craft and structure will drown out your individual voices that is crap as well. The craft is only there to help you find your individual voice and then hone it so why would the craft interfere with the writing? I think Carl and Phyllida told each one of you that you need to write a story that only you can tell and that you have to tell...that's your individual voice isn't it? Many actors say that craft ruins the spontaneity of their acting and that according to me is bullshit...it enhances everything you do. So use it to your advantage!
Whew...I thought I wasn't going to be a parent and here I am doling out advice!
Ah well! Thats me!
More soon
Shernaz

Morning poem

Up!
Write!
Face front
No pause
Past flaws
Plotholes
Cold ghost
Words gape
Dead shape
Drag feet
No parking here!
Hup! Forward MARCH!

Words
Sink.

Red prose
Implodes
Family tree
Inhabits head
Roots sunk
Wet. Dead.
Father ghost and son
Speak tongues
Sing songs and take their morning dump
Without permission
Bring out the riot police!
Who gave you leave!

Push! Harder
Now
It starts
Parents
Gone
Flown home
Teachers
Wood beams
Woodstock
Freelove
Gone
Torn
From womb.
Now it begins
Alone.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Yoashang hut - photo by E-Pao/Fancy Photo Studio

Dear all,

I am trying to give you all a visual introduction to the social background of my play. Lets start with the makeshift hut. Yaoshang literally means sheep's hut. Children make this hut and wait for the priest to come with an idol of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu. After a puja, the hut will be burnt in the evening; signalling the start of the year's Holi. Children in their newest clothes will go around the neighbourhood in small groups, begging for alms. They will knock at every door and announce "naa-ka-theng".

Yaoshang Pala - photo by Poknapham


yaoshang pala - photo by poknapham
Originally uploaded by Swar.
A vibrant group of traditional male performers called nupa pala. The drum is called pung (pronounced as pooong) and the pairs of brass discs with the thick red tassles are called kohr-taal (played by males) or mandilaa (played by women). The music builds up an amazing, deafening crescendo.

Yaoshang pala march - photo courtesy Poknapham

The colour, music and frenzy of Holi in Manipur.

Meira Paibis - photo courtesy E-Pao

the women torch bearers of manipur who are an integral part of the political, social and moral consciousness of the maipuri society.

MUSU protest - photo courtesy David M Mayum

The Manipur University Student Union's president is dragged away by security force during the public protest against Assam Rifles and Armed Forces Special Powers Act.

nude protest- photo courtesy atom samarendra

Manipur erupted in a massive public outrage against the rape and killing of Manorama by 17 AR in 2004. This photo is a nude protest by manipuri women activists infront of The Assam Rifles on 15 July 2004.
Vigourous exchange of creative juices (including Teachers), I note. Hope we're all on course for end July final first drafts, guys.

Important for us?

Guys...what does this have to do with us and our writing? Everything and nothing. Arundhati Roy says in An Ordinary Man's Guide to Empire...'If you have a voice that is publicly heard, you must eventually ask yourself what you are using it for.'

Where India shining meets great depression
P. Sainath
FARM SUICIDES in Vidharbha crossed 400 this week. The Sensex crossed the 11,000 mark. And Lakme Fashion Week issued over 500 media passes to journalists. All three are firsts. All happened the same week. And each captures in a brilliant if bizarre way a sense of where India's Brave New World is headed. A powerful measure of a massivedisconnect. Of the gap between the haves and the have-mores on the one hand, and the dispossessed and desperate on the other.Of the three events, the suicide toll in Vidharbha found no mention in many newspapers and television channels. Even though these have occurred since just June 2 last year. Even though the most conservative figure (of Sakaal newspaper) places the deaths at above 372. (The count since 2000-01 would run to thousands.)Sure, there were rare exceptions in the media. But they were just that ­ rare. It is hard todescribe what those fighting this incredible human tragedy on the ground feel about it. More so when faced with the silence of a national media given to moralising on almost everything else.In the 13 days during which the suicide index hit 400, 40 farmers took their own lives. The Vidharbha Jan Andolan Samiti points out that the suicides are now more than three a day ­ and mounting. These deaths are not the result of natural disaster, but of policies rammed through with heartless cynicism. They are driven by several factors that include debt linked to a credit crunch, soaring input costs, crashing prices, and a complete loss of hope. That loss of faith and the rise in the numbers of deaths has been sharpest since last October. That's when a government that came to power promising a cotton price of Rs.2,700 a quintal ensured it fell to Rs.1,700. A thousand rupees less.When 322 of 413 suicides have occurred since just November 1, you'd think that is newsworthy. When the highest number, 77, take place in March alone, you'd believe the same. You'd be wrong, though. The Great Depression of the Indian countryside does not make news.But the Sensex and Fashion Week do. "There is nothing wrong," an irate reader wrote to me, "in covering the Sensex or the Fashion Week." True. But there is something horribly wrong with our sense of proportion while doing so. Every pulse beat and flutter on the Sensex merits front-page treatment. Even if less than two per cent of Indian households have any kind of investments in the stock exchange here. This week's rise does not just mark the highest ever. It makes the lead story on the front page. That's because the"Sensex beats Dow in numbers game." The strap below that headline in a leading daily reads: "Dalal Street's 11,183 eclipses Wall Street." It's moved to 11,300 since then.On television, even non-business channels carry that ticker at the right hand corner. Keeping viewers alert to the main chance even as they draw in the number of deaths in the latest bomb blasts. At one point, the mourning for President K.R. Narayanan was juxtaposed to the joys of the Nifty and the Sensex. The irony does get noticed but it persists.The great news for Fashion Week lovers is that this year will see two of them. There's a split in the ranks of the Beautiful People. Which means we will now have 500 or more journalists covering two such events separately. This in a nation where the industry's own study put the Indian designer market at 0.2 per cent of the total apparel market. Where journalists at such shows each year outnumber buyers ­often three to one.Contrast that with the negligible number of reporters sent out to cover Vidharbha in thedepths of its great misery. At the LFW, journalists jostle for `exclusives' while TV crews shove one another around for the best `camera space.' In Vidharbha itself, the bestreporters there push only the limits of their own sanity. Faced with dailies that kill most oftheir stories, or with channels that scorn such reports, they still persist. Trying desperately to draw the nation's attention to what is happening. To touch its collective conscience. So intense has been their tryst with misery, they drag themselves to cover the next household against the instinct to switch off. Every one of them knows the farm suicides are just the tip of the iceberg. A symptom of a much wider distress.The papers that dislike such stories do find space for the poor, though. As in thisadvertisement, which strikes a new low in contempt for them. Two very poor women, probably landless workers, are chatting: "That's one helluva designer tan," says the first to the other. "Yeah," replies the other. "My skin just takes to the Monte Carlo sun." The copy that follows then mocks them. "You'll agree," it says, "chances that the ladies above rub shoulders with the glitterati of the French Riviera are, well, a little remote." It throws in a disclaimer, of course. "We don't mean to be disrespectful ... " But "this is a mere reminder to marketers that a focus on customers with stronger potential doeshelp." That is an ad for the `Brand Equity,' supplement of a leading newspaper group.Nearly 5,000 shanties were torn down in Mumbai in the same eventful week. But it drew little attention. Their dwellers won't make it to the French Riviera either. Those in media focus, though, might. Mumbai's planned Peddar Road flyover, seen by some of the metro's mega rich as hurting their interests, grabbed yards of newsprint and endless broadcast time. There was barely a word seen or heard from those whose homes were razed to the ground. Meanwhile, more and more people flee the countryside for urbanIndia. Candidates for future demolitions. In the village, we demolish their lives, in the city their homes.The smug indifference of the elite is matched by the governments they do not vote in, but control. When the National Commission for Farmers went to Vidharbha last October, it brought out a serious report and vital recommendations. Many of these have become demands of the farmers and their organisations. At its Nashik meeting in January,the All-India Kisan Sabha (a body with 20 million members) called for immediate implementation of the NCF report.Instead, both the Centre and the State Government have sent more and more `commissions' to the region. To `study' what was well known and already documented. It's a kind of distress tourism now. It just adds the sins of `commissions' to those of omission.Favouring corporatesThe damage is not only in Vidharbha but across the land. Why is the Indian state doing this to its farmers? Isn't farming, after all, the biggest private sector in India? Because being private isn't enough. Ruthlessly, each policy, every budget moves us further towards a corporate takeover of agriculture. Large companies were amongst the top gainers from distress sales of cotton in Vidharbha this season. The small private owners called farmers must be sacrificed at the altar of big corporate profit. The clearest admission of this came in the McKinsey-authored Vision 2020 of ChandrababuNaidu in Andhra Pradesh. It set out the removal of millions of people from the land as one of its objectives. Successive governments at the Centre and in many States seem to have latched on to that vision with much zeal. In some ways, the present United Progressive Alliance takes up where Mr. Naidu left off.Where are those being thrown off the land to go? To the cities and towns with their shutdown mills. With closed factories and very little employment. The great Indian miracle is based on near jobless growth. We are witnessing the biggest human displacement in our history and not even acknowledging it. The desperation for anywork at all is clear in the rush for it at just the start of the National Rural EmploymentGuarantee Programme. Within a week of its launch, it saw 2.7 million applicants in just 13 districts of Andhra Pradesh. And close to a million in 12 districts of Maharashtra. Note that the Rs.60 wage is below the minimum of several States. Know, too, that many in the lines of applicants are landed farmers. Some of them with six acres or more. In the Warangal district of Andhra Pradesh, a farmer who owned eight acres of paddy fields was a person of some status 10 years ago. Today, he or she, with a family of five,would be below the poverty line. (If that's the case with landowners, imagine the state of landless labourers.)If the State Government's role in Vidharbha is sick, that of the Centre is appalling. Making sad noises is about as far as it will go. As the NCF report shows, much can be done to save hundreds of more lives that will surely otherwise be lost. But it avoids that path.Its vision of farming serves corporates, not communities. And the media elite? Why not aVidharbha week? To report the lives and deaths of those whose cotton creates the textiles and fabrics that they do cover. If just a fourth of the journalists sent to the Fashion Week were assigned to cover Vidharbha, they'd have many more stories to tell.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

fulfilling the dusk-y promise


writers bloc
Originally uploaded by Swar.

the party!

want more? here you go!


bengalaruu update

me went watching jean anouilh's antigone at ranga shankara last evening. VIJAY, I SAW AJAY! so stop fretting. he is alive and kicking with full force of his primordial instincts!

bangalore is burning, people. its freaking hot here. thank god i am leaving for imphal soon. its drizzling there. i am gonna take tons of snaps there. oh yeah, i am uploading the workshop snaps soon. as soon as dusk falls. i need the romance of the dusk to upload such gorgeous photographs. tee hee. maia darling, if august happens in vasind, i'll get you a teachers. your black label was my source of inspiration. manjima, hows life (with) in-laws?

i dreamt of my next scene. thats why i sleep more and write less. m relying on my sonambulism to give me life-shattering scenes.

more this evening.

We're celebrities!

Guys,
We were in HT Style this morning, group shot and all. And no, Anuvab, the headline wasn't "All the world's a stage..."
For those of you who don't know already, HT Style is a marginally more intelligent version of Page 3. The column above us featured Shobha De and Katrina Kaif. Isn't life funny!

A nice painting

Hi ho,
just thought id post a painting that i really like, to see how the image upload works.
its by this guy called brughel...
bit of a nutter, but i love all the gory details that he incorporates into his work.
it would be lovely if anyone could upload workshop snaps to this space so we can all access them?
this is so that we don't have to deal with paintings titled ' the triumph of death' when we view the blog. he he.
hope all is well with you guys and that reality has not hit too hard.


Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Ommision as a form of creation

This article sits prominently on my dektop... Initially the density of reference, and the technicalities of musical theory put me off, but eventually the stunning clarity of the piece shone through.

If we know it already - chuck it.

This piece of advice has helped me tremendously... And is largely responsible for my adventurous foray into mumbling laconic characters who volunteer a few words at best. The flipside is that you often go paper thin on solid backstory and character-meat, but it's a worthwhile trade off (imho). Often I've found that while writing initial drafts it's ok to gratuitously front load revelatory information since you're not really thinking about editing. In subsequent drafts you end up burying that discovered information and distributing it evenly all over the script. Anyway... it's also a taste thing, so before I sound all minimal-fanatical, I'll just post the article. Hope I don't get sued.

Hearing the Notes That Aren't Played
July 15, 2002
By DAVID MAMET

My piano lessons began 50 years ago, in September 1951. My teacher was an Austrian martinet - Isadore Buchalter. He told my family that he had hopes for me, that I was somewhat musical, but that I couldn't learn to read.

I realized, 40-plus years later, that I wasn't cursed with indolence, but that I couldn't see the notes. I was hopelessly myopic. I got my first eyeglasses when I was 8, but by then I had quit the piano.

Around 1963 my lessons continued when I had the great fortune to meet Louise Gould. She sat me down and had me playing triads, and triads with the octave, both hands, up and down the keyboard. She used this simple exercise to show me the cycle of fifths, and its additions, subtraction, alterations, inversions, which are the foundations of music theory. I realized that my toddler piano lessons had taught me to play without reading, to fake it, to play by ear.

I played four hands one afternoon with Randy Newman. I apologized for rushing. I said I was such a musical doofus that I almost felt as if I had to "count." He stopped and looked at me a bit in incomprehension and said, "Everyone counts." He also taught me to hear the passing tone, to listen for it, as it was driving the music.

Joel Silver produced several of my wife's records, and I got a priceless tip from him: "Leave out the third - we hear it anyway."

The passing tone and the excised third opened up a new world to me. I began to get (timorously) bold, to eschew the first inversion and the keys of F and C major.

The Stoics cautioned us to keep our philosophical precepts few and simple, as we might have to refer to them at a moment's notice. These tips became my philosophical principles, and they forced me to slow down and think.

I remember Bensinger's pool hall in Chicago, in the 60's, and the hustler-instructor who taught: If you can see more, don't shoot. Same idea.

People say the great genius of Nat Cole was his ability to accompany himself on the piano, that he understood that most delicate and intricate duet and its demand for spaciousness, for elegance. "We hear it anyway."

This is the genius of Bach, and the overwhelming demand of dramaturgy - this understanding, or its lack, divides those who can write from those who can really write: how much can one remove, and still have the composition be intelligible?

Chekhov removed the plot. Pinter, elaborating, removed the history, the narration; Beckett, the characterization. We hear it anyway.

It is in our nature to elaborate, estimate, predict - to run before the event. This is the meaning of consciousness; anything else is instinct. Bach allows us to run before, and his resolutions, as per Aristotle, are as inevitable (as they must be, given the strictures of Western compositional form) and surprising as his elaborate genius.

We are thus delighted and instructed, as per Freud, in a nonverbal way, as to the varieties of perception, possibility, completion - we are made better. Our consciousness, listening to Bach, has been rewarded, refreshed, chastised, soothed - in Bach and Sophocles both, the burden of consciousness has momentarily been laid down.

Both legitimate modern drama (Pirandello, Ionesco) and the trash of performance art build on the revelation that omission is a form of creation - that we hear the third anyway - that the audience will supply the plot.

But our experience of such can be, at best, a smug joy.

We listen to some concert pianist improvise waterfall arpeggios for an hour, or view puerile performances and, though we may leave the theater smiling, we are left poorer, for we celebrated not the divine but the ability of the uninspired to ape the divine. This is idolatry.

We rejoice both in the familiar and the surprising. Music, drama, circus, the creation of all the performing arts proceeds from researched or intuited understanding of the nature of human perception, thesis-antithesis-synthesis: I can fly from one trapeze to another. But can I do a triple somersault? Yes. No. Yes.

Much Modern art is either a slavish reiteration of the form (musical comedy) its slavish rejection (action painting). Yes, it is true that life would be better if we were all a little kinder, and it is true that paint spattered in the air will fall to the ground. Both are true, but who would have suspected that they were notable?

The commandments are the same: leave out the third, concentrate on the missing tone. Yes, we know that in the key of G a C chord would like to resolve to G. How does it get there? The ardor to address this question accounts for the genius of Beckett and also of Vernon Duke, Prokofiev, Kurt Weill.

The fascinating question of Art: What is between A and B?

180o from Vasind

This morning, I had my Mediclaim test. The lab technician had severe body odour.
Soon I will be driving through rush hour traffic to catch a meeting in Andheri.
Then another meeting at Nariman Point in a small glass box on the 19th floor with a an arrogant south indian client who keeps looking at my tits.
Then back to Bandra to check for typo errors on a Life Insurance application form.
The temperature at noon in Bombay is 32 degrees above boiling.
I couldn't do Tai Chi today because my ankle hurt (damn that swimming pool!)
I have acidity.
August is five months away.
Good morning, everyone.

Monday, April 03, 2006

New to Blogging

I am new to blogging. I have never blogged in my life. And I am sort of nervous. I have that kind of personality. I am afraid that people would find out everything about me if they visit my blog. And I have a lot of secrets.
In any case blogging is not something many people like to do. Even Rajiv who had carried his b-school competitiveness to Vasind is not blogging. And he was first in everything. First in Squash. First in Swimming. First in writing. But he is not first in blogging. Wonder why?
Any news of Ajay, Ira and Manaswani? They traveled back to Mumbai with me. I was the one who left my laptop behind with my existential malaise. But I feel very responsible for them in a very adult way.
I have also not written anything. I think I have become fairer after attending the workshop. So I spend a lot of time staring at my reflection. This is a very Anuvab way of saying things. So I guess I am easily influenced.
I ranked all the writers after the workshop. But I am not sharing my ranks with anyone. I only wish to state humbly that I was nowhere near the top three.
But come what may, I am not going to give up. When I die people should think of me as a writer.

So long,

Vijay

here finally

landed in bangalore last night. should start writing by tomorrow. today was spent at the dentist's chair. i just fell off it and crawled home. ewwww.

Shithead

I feel like one. No writing yet. Play was bad. These guys are into conflict resolution and not really theatre per se. I'm going to go looking for Barry John soon. Hope he helps...he's my one and only hope as far as I can see!
In-laws all over the place means conversations yelled over the phone about marriages and maids and food and cleaning and whatever else keeps a household going. Which means...no writing yet. Think I'm going to have to resort to writing at midnight or something.

Rewriting

Finished a couple more scenes over the weekend. Then re-read them this morning and plumetted into deep depression.
Carl's instruction was clearly to leave re-writing for later. Finish the first draft first.
But the temptation is so strong, because I see many flaws clearly. Also a lifetime of conditioning in the copywriter's craft, where we start polishing in our heads almost before we start writing.
Suggestions? Advice?

Sunday, April 02, 2006

devastated in delhi

Hello people. It's good to be virtually with you.

Waahhhh!!! I hate Delhi!!!

Am going to see an English play by an amateur group today, in the hope of finding someone who understands new work and wants to do it. The play is directed by a guy called Dilip Shankar. Have heard of him. Used to work with Barry John. Wish me luck, people!

No writing yet, and my in-laws have already arrived for an indefinite stay... guess I'll just curl up and go to sleep for a while!

This is so us...

Guys...below, the commencement address by Steve Jobs at Stanford Univ in June 05. Gorgeous content, gorgeous writing. Hugely relevant for us I think.
And will someone please show me how to do links/attachments on this thing? This is clumsy.
All love!

'You've got to find what you love,' Jobs says

I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I've ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That's it. No big deal. Just three stories.
The first story is about connecting the dots.
I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?
It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: "We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?" They said: "Of course." My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.
And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents' savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn't see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn't interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.
It wasn't all romantic. I didn't have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends' rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:
Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn't have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can't capture, and I found it fascinating.
None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, its likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.
Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.
My second story is about love and loss.
I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.
I really didn't know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down - that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.
I didn't see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.
During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I retuned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple's current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.
I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle.
My third story is about death.
When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.
Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.
About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn't even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor's code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you'd have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.
I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I'm fine now.
This was the closest I've been to facing death, and I hope its the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:
No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.
Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.
When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960's, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.
Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: "Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.
Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.
Thank you all very much.