Copied from my facebook tonight – freestyle musings. Thinking to move some of this to a letter to the the Indian Voice (www.indianvoice.c…
Copied from my facebook tonight – freestyle musings. Thinking to move some of this to a letter to the the Indian Voice (www.indianvoice.com.au), and maybe a letter to The Age (but very unsure about that). Anyhoo… For a long time, before, but more so after I went to the UK in my elective trip, have I wanted to return to the UK. The Royal College of Psychiatrists actually seem to provide a strongly structured education-focussed training experience, that in Australia is shambolic at times. In Victoria, the educational experience is strong, but part of this is the fact that the two leading universities step in and provide our mandatory formal education course, by means of an expensive masters. The other part is that some hospitals provide teaching, though this varies from site to site. The other thing pulling me to the UK is the richness of experimental South Asian artforms there. Having the experience of South Asian migration since the 60s, initially in a hostile environment, to one that has become South Asianised to an extent, well, a lot I think. The forms of expression are challenging on all levels. It seems today the UK openly fosters creative thinking in all its citizens, including those of diverse cultures from outside the region. I recall reading about Kapoor’s Marsyas (http://www.tate.org.uk/mod / ern/exhibitions/kapoor/def / ault.htm) at the Tate, but didn’t get to see it when I visited. There are many levels of fusion of Indian music forms with modern Western forms. If I leave the thriving UK Bhangra (well, relatively) scene and concentrate on Indian classical music, and what is now the Indian Electronic scene, the urge grows. I wanna check out Shaanti’s Funkshaan gigs (http://www.shaanti.co.uk/a / bout.htm), the Dhol Foundation (http://www.dholfoundation. / com/) and learn about the environment that created masters like Talvin Singh and Nitin Sahney – Mercury Award winners in the early 90s. But most of all, through photography I wish to portray the dynamism of South Asian dance art. Recently visiting the websites of Akademi (www.akademi.co.uk) and South Asian Dance UK (southasiandance.org.uk/) I felt pretty inspired. I’d also want to check out the Asian Mela in London and see how Diwali in London compares to Melbourne’s Fed Sq gig. I think for most Indian Diaspora outside the UK, that country is seen as the leading edge of progressive Indian culture. Perhaps in the US and Canada it’s a little different as they too have substantial South Asian populations. But I don’t think they have either the progressive edge that the UK does, nor the strong support the UK seems to provide to South Asian art institutions. The point here for me is that this allows South Asian art to expand far beyond what it might in South Asia, to become naturally contemplative and reflective, exploring the South Asian experience of migration and budding in a new home; for participants (those creating, and consuming the art) this allows them too to wander, to explore. This is a natural, comfortable way of creating understanding between communities as they shift from migrant, to British (or Australian, etc). This is how to foster ‘assimilation’ in my view. I think the Indian community in Australia has been too ‘safe’, and unwilling to stretch the boundaries of its own thinking, existence and by extension, contribution to wider society. Art is the way to do this. And we need our kids to not just be good doctors, lawyers, engineers or consultants, but to be leaders in mainstream society and to help mainstream society reflect and pause. Perhaps this is changing, as I am beginning to see some creativity in my second generation Indian Australian peers – though, most of us have had to do our cultural duty and establish ourselves in acceptable career paths before taking creative risk. The South Asian community’s long history of over 6000 years as a culture, and unique experiences of multiplicities (of languages, of ethnicities, of religions, of cultures living side by side peacefully in most part) and repeated vistation and invasion by many diverse cultures (who have redefined what India not only looked like, but what India itself was) should help us help our mainstream society as it struggles with issues of cultural diversity and the relationships between newer migrant communities, ‘older’ Australia, and the Indigenous heart of the nation. These thoughts come on the eve of Diwali celebrations in Melbourne tomorrow, at Federation Square. Like Diwali representing a row of lights; the victory of good over evil, let us light the floor of the nation. So that we can see where we tread, so we can understand ourselves.
I have this text file and its filled with lots and lots of pieces of poetry, poetry that has a beginning but remains fractured like a han…
I have this text file and its filled with lots and lots of pieces of poetry, poetry that has a beginning but remains fractured like a hanging, broken limb, it kind of cuts off after a couple of verses and doesn’t lead anywhere, so I have all these ideas that never amount to anything, which really kind of pisses me off because some of them would probably turn out okay, I just lack the inspiration and self discipline to carrry on with them, it’s like staring at something for too long until it becomes too familiar and you wind up getting sick of it, a bit like marriage I suppose, once the glow and the romance of the honeymoon has worn off, lol, not that you can marry a poem, but if you did, when you found it becoming too familiar, well you either have to invent some new lines to spice things up a little or you draw a line through it all and just move on… I have lots of pieces of poetry with lines scribbled through them, just like jilted lovers who have become too familiar over time, funny how when something begins to grow on me I abandon it, I’ve often started things and then gotten too bored with them to finish them off, or maybe I’m just afraid of failure, of not living up to my own expectations, I never had anyone place expectations on me when I was growing up, it was all about me placing expectations on myself, of course I could never live up to the standards that I set… Shit, this is just a load of freestyle dribble, sometimes it’s good to just write any ole shit and then if you’re game enough to put up with the smell and dig deep into the middle of it, you might just find a few lines worth salvaging, a bit like the thief who swallowed a diamond ring when the cops came, and then shat it out a few hours later… If poetry was a man I’d have had numerous marriages and divorces by now, heaps of abandoned ideas would be asking me to give them another chance, to take the time to get to know them better, but I’d just lose patience and grow bored with them, besides, there’s nothing worse than poetry that begins whining at you, it completely fucks up the challenge and purpose in writing it, poetry should be spontaneous, unplanned, almost as if some unseen force is taking your hand and moving it across the paper – if you have to think about it too hard, then it just becomes hard work, and that’s when you may as well get a divorce, cause once you’re working it too hard, the romance and beauty of the moment have gone, poetry shouldn’t be something that becomes codependent, something you feel you HAVE to write because you owe it something or feel emotionally obliged to… Shit I have about a thousand ex poems scrawled all over the place on pieces of paper, cardboard, tissue, text files, poems I just couldn’t be fucked lasting out the distance with, I get bored too easily… I divorced another poem today, I even gave it back its ring, best to let it shine alone if I don’t want it. On a completely different note, I wonder why my shrink wants to go to the trouble of making a house call on Friday… I should set up booby trap for when he comes hahaha. Grrrrrrr… ever since I went into the psyche unit I’ve had so called professionals prodding and poking around with my brain and sticking their noses into my life. Weird… That ’s the one thing I haven’t been able to write a poem about… It’s like a big blank, the psyche unit and all of that bullshit, if I was bukowski I could write a dozen poems or more about that shit. I had the freakiest psychotic episode when I was in there… Until they chemically controlled me with their bullshit and meds. I miss some of those crazy times. end of rant. (Just trying to keep my mind thinking is all, sometimes it feels like it’s forgotten how to). P.S. I guess the moral of the above rant is that you should never marry a poem, never try to tie it down or try to domesticate it, leave it wild and running free. Be a mistress or a whore to your words but never a wife. Poetry I jilted… last night becomes a distant memory / twisted and tangled around her feet / and the smell of his sex still lingers / wet and sticky beneath the sheets…...................? Everything has scars and flaws / and every shelter has its doors / as time goes on we need to share / companionship some place… somewhere…................................????? (BIG GAP OF NOTHING HERE Ending: for sometimes we / must sacrifice / loves temptuous flames / for stone cold ice / for when things aren’t / quite as they seem / we find perfection / in our dreams Something in life has been lost / you can see it in the eyes of the children / smell it in the flesh of the dead / taste it in the blood of the bleeding / and feel it in the bones of the broken….............................??????? ah shit… And there’s a million more.
Free-running. It’s kind of like gymnastics, except competitors wear baggy pants and t-shirts… and fall on concrete if they get it wro…
Free-running. It’s kind of like gymnastics, except competitors wear baggy pants and t-shirts… and fall on concrete if they get it wrong. I’d arrived in time to find that Trafalgar Square was completely surrounded by a 3metre high fence, however luck intervened… / They came from everywhere and took up every vantagepoint available… and then were promptly told not to because it was dangerous. (Nobody realised the freaking irony of being told not to take risks when watching freerunners perform. But England is like that…) / In the absence of anything so mundane as an entry ticket, I had found a vantagepoint, and it afforded me a view of the preliminary rounds / Free-Running. It’s all the rage in France right now. Let’s be honest, you’re gonna wanna live in a country with a decent health system if you do this sort of thing. / This, incidentally, was my ‘vantagepoint’ – a 5mm hole in a 3metre sheet metal fence. Then I got a tap on the shoulder, and a father and son who decided not to stay for the finals gave me one of their entry wristbands… / ... and despite the band having been demonstrably tampered with for removal, the girl at the gate allowed me in (I have a certain charm. Apparently / perhaps) And all of a sudden I had an improved vantagepoint! Thank you so much, random strangers!! / This is “The Petebox” a beatboxer of, I’ll be frank, some pretty spectacular skillz. There was one point where he used a looping repeater.. thing… to turn a beautiful Jewish hymn into an equally impressive techno song. And he’d created the multiple vocals, backing, and base, all live, Fantastic stuff. / The Petebox is so Extreme he hires parcour champions to crowd-surf on his behalf… / “And remember, kids : don’t do drugs. Instead, do something much, much more dangerous. Wait… am I allowed to say this??” / The guy on the right with the baseball cap on backwards (...) actually choreographed the parkour pre-credits action sequence in the James Bond movie ‘Casino Royale’. Which I guess entitles you to walk around with your cap on backwards… I guess. / Just to give you an idea of the height these guys operate from… Also note the lack of safety mats (interestingly, they had them out for the half-time entertainment). That said, the setup kind of made it hard at first to tell how the different levels of the course were in a three-dimensional sense… / “Oh, look- somebody dropped a penny!” / The secret of freerunning possibly has something to do with altering your sense of up and down… (like the spoon in The Matrix, if you will) / There comes a time in every young man’s life when he has only a split second before disaster to find out whether he put enough rotation on his last jump. (the answer, here, was yes) / Another one of those shots that’s more effective from the participants’ perspective rather than the audience. I also call this photo In Flight / It would be cooler still try a pickup line at this point in your routine…. but if you can’t then this is still pretty impressive / The Austrian entrant winds up for some crowd stage diving, and a large part of the crowd is very nervous / I think if you’re going to be a professional freerunner, you have to accept a certain likelihood of injury. As the Belgian competitor who twisted his knee earlier in the finals did… / The British entrant limbers up, and the surviving crowd from the Austrian crowd surfer flee the scene in panic / “Ah. That’s where I left my contact lens” / Comfortable with how his 60-second routine is progressing, the British competitor decides on yet another stretch. / Though expensive, the meditation lessons had been worth every cent. / It’s a first place for Britain! No point in just walking up, grabbing the trophy and shaking the MC’s hand, though. One has one’s reputation to consider. / “Argh! Confetti in my eye!! Who the hell thought this was a good idea??” So that was that. Obviously don’t try this at home. Or, alternatively try it at home in preference to train tracks and public spaces. Or, on the other hand, do it anyway and have fun. But don’t come crying to me if you hurt yourself (but please do tell me so I can bring my camera) And again, a big thanks to the random kindness of two complete strangers who let me have their entry wristband. Hope the photos in some way say ‘thanks!!!’ Until next time!
A warm Thank you hug to the hosts of Nirvana for featuring my artwork and poetry Winter. ...
A warm Thank you hug to the hosts of Nirvana for featuring my artwork and poetry Winter. Time twists gently / Through the labyrinth of my veins Thoughts pass slowly / Lingering in the shade Light drifts easily / Creeping into night Sounds swirl lazily / Far beyond reach Breath rises softly / And is lost Blood flows grudgingly / And stops Time moves gently / On
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