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11toe11-blog · 4 years

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oNce again on that sTreet

I suppose I am at a point where, i need to sit down and draw this out of me. Clean the well.

Shuba asked me yesterday. Why dont i write. I do. Almost every other day. About something or the other. As observations. Contemplations. Very rarely once in a while meanders into poetry and almost never creative fiction.

I am...afraid of fiction.

There i said it.

I suppose then its corollary goes that I am afriad of reality. Maybe.

But let me start with fiction and try and lean into the obvious and apparent fear of fiction. As i write i notice a weight, a clenching in the middle of my chest. And rolling up to my throat.

But lets persist this one time.

I am making it a point to note the very obvious physical sensations as i write.

So yes, fear of fiction.

Yesterday Rajiv shared a talk between Marina Abramovic and Alejandro I ( I forget the surname but the same guy who made birdman). Talkin about Virtual Reality as the next frontier of creative exploration after film, he mentioned about how the human brain makes no distinction between reality and fiction. Obviously more so in case of VR, but garden variety novels and comic strips and books and stories and theatre and film and all of that fall into that space where the brain makes no distinction between what is my reality lived and expereinced and, even if briefly the story of another. From experience i know, some of us are better than others at extricating ourselves from the story we entered to continue walking in the present, many of us carry the seeds and suggestions of te story, and many many of us remain in the story.

That makes stories very powerful and dangerous.

That makes story tellers very powerful and dangerous.

Layers and layers of stories wrapped around. Layers and layers of memories. Layers and layers of connections. Gateways of infinite possibilities on one had. And very own, home spun energy leeching coccoon on the other.

My brain particularly has had difficulties distinguishing stories and reality. Ive grown up with stories. Like most kids. Like most kids who loved loved listening and reading to stories and were surrounded by generous adults who lavished attention as stories of adventures great and small, stories read or retold or instantly woven.

By the time i started on film, I could watch a movie. And sit then later sit and play the whole thing back and watch it in my mind. My own personal Netflix. I could run it when ever i was alone - in the loo, before i slept, when i woke up, yada.

After my sexual encounter with an older cousin at the age of 8 years, these films began to have distinct sexual content too. I could replace characters. Mix up relationships. Easily enter relams of taboo. So while outwardly i was struggling with the shame and social anxities and adaptation, my inner world and ofcourse my body demanded the thrill of the grind. That heightended feeling when one could rub ones vagina against something. A swollen penis covered by denim, a leg, a thigh, another vagina, pillow.

Well, given a young girl in kerala, i am sure you can imagine the confusion of the middle class family facing their own share of social and emtional hardships. The school that preffers children like a batch of uniformed cupcakes. Encountering this strange child who seemed wild and untamable. Plenty of trashings and socail embarassments and isolations.

Ofcourse not to mention, adventures. And misadventures.

I suppose since my mind could go anywhere, into any restricted area, physical restrictions made no sense. I remember dreaming up a story of the romance between two of my young teachers, both married to different people. Can you beleive the thrashing i got when i started telling these stories and it finally reached my teacher.

Or of imaging the sex lives of the young Brahmin couple with a child and parents living with them. I imagined them waking up after everyone had gone to bed and first the guy would make his way to the bathroom aoutside and then the wife would follow him. And there they would have steamy sex, have a quiet shower together and sneak back into the house.

I was happily making porn even before internet.

Well. I suppose so was the rest of the state, i suppose. The older i grew, i dont think i accepted it because i probably had drawn a veil of self-propriety, most of the people around me too were living out imgained sexual fantasies. That was hard to accept.

Like knowing that my father had affairs of sorts, or walking into him holding the handsof the servant girl in the darkest corner of the house and him suddenly making a scene about her having not done some work and her giggling. Or my mother hinting constantly at my fathers transgressions and waywardness, possibly to allay her own pressures and guilt of pleasures.

Knowing that my mother lied to me about her relationship with her best friend...what was simple and liberal suddenly turned murky. And murkier when she had a strange toxic sexual relationship with the substaff in her office. Depiste the sick sadomachotistic territory it went through and put all of us through, the class-lessness also mattered to me too i suppose. And years of silence and protecting honor and holding the family together and all those things

A simultaneous tightening and release of the chest.

Why did i meander into this dark alley? Because stories are full of dark alleys. The mind is full of dark alleys. How to shine some light could be what stories are about.

BUt then, in the hands of some, its possible to turn off the lights too with stories.

In my adult identity, i am surrounded by storytellers. Not passively as a book full of shelves or a netflix account. But the creators - film makes, illustrators, theatre makers, movers, singers, spiritual seekers, dream makers. At briefly before - journalitsts, PR gus, activists, hope makers. And before that colleges/ schools - naarative makers.

So yea, I am surrounded by storytellers. I chose this, obviously. I chose in my life path to be surrounded by storytellers. Yet i want nothing to do with them .

As much as a part of me years to play and spin with them. Another part of me is terrified of them.

The tricksters.

Who can make one buy into anything. Any idea. Lose ones self in a moment.

Offer ones mind on a platter. Mind and energy.

I doubt their intentions.

What do they want my attention for?

What are they going to do with all this attention they are getting? All this fuel they draw out of people and surroundings, what are they offering it to? Whose altar do they worship?

Obviously i havent never articulated these out aloud.

I would be without friends. Well over time i have ver very few anyways. So thats hardly the problem. I suppose the reasin i have never articulated this out aloud is probably beacuse, the three fingers point at me. I suspect corruption, because i have seen corruption within me.

The creating and dismantling of identities, hunting for attention, people becoming pawns, ambition, self obsession, narcissism, vacume. Addiction to the drama.

A vehicle, for the archtypes to do their dance. Chewed and spat out and regenerated and chewed and spat out and gathering sharrered pieces of life only to be chewed again. Reminds me of the moringa. BUt clearly the moringa is not complaining. I am.

Some part of me has had enough. With the circus. The puppet life.

Another part of is there, waiting in the wings on my toes to be swept in.

While i was always curious about the mind, i suppose it was never with this focus, this drive to tame it. And somewhere even in that i know i am still dancing, even if it appears like a non-dance. Kalari, Vipassna, Tai Chi, Tantra, Ramana. Even art therapy.

All of it is for self knowledge. And ofcourse the practises are taking one there, otherwise how else would this note have been possible. Though in my attitude, i am at war. There is a war for awareness and attention. I am at war with my mind. Even as i write it, i know how futile it is - same dog pulling at opposite ends of the same bone. How? Dog will go hungry. Period.

Meaningless.

I suppose the idea is to trust ones self. And self will take care of the mind. So in effect, even trust the mind because one has already trusted ones self. But my mind has gotten me into so much trouble, made friends with the craziest of archetypes that i am afriad. Yes, i am afriad of it. That it will get me into trouble again. I wont be able to distinguish and centre. And another archtype will possess and ride me. And my mind, will let it.

And all over again, i will lose my sense of self.

Pain. Confusion. Loss of dignity. Loss of stability. All of that i associate with that. And i am just resurfacing after one recent round. Brinks of insanity.

I suppose that is why i practise and hold on to the forms that have come to me. Kalari, Vipassana, Tai Chi. Thy have travelled through time. Stood the tests of the mind to anhilate them. And with them, Ill hopefully be able to fashion a key. To keep me safe.

Lightening of chest

There i said it. And i see that i am clinging. All this, to be safe. And if it is clinging to safety, it is the ego. Which wants to be safe. The mind wants to be safe from itself. Hirlarious!

Like puppet theatre. One hand plays red riding hood and the other hand plays the big bad wolf.

Distracting me from the puppeteer.

Why?

If i see the puppeter ill want to be the puppeteer?

Deep breath

I know i have a blindspot. Somewhere. And my attention moves from being the red riding hood or the wolf or the chase. Maybe if i was able to spot the blind spot, ill get to be the puppeter.

The puppeteer who either a good guy or a bad guy, being puppetered in a meta play. In a meta play. Loop.

Theatre of Earth.

It endless. And no way out.

Yes, way. Buddha way.

But that doesnt seem to be my question now.

It seems to be, how do i get to play the playwright in one of the plays, at whever level. What is there to lose. Its all only a play.

Playwright. Setting the frame for the magic. Or witch craft as someone in the comment section of the Marina- Alejandro talk said. Fiddling with the Tao. Not letting nature be. Not letting it be, but manipulating it. Power play.

The fundamantal question posed by monotheistic practises to the tantric/multi - must the mindscape be meddled with?

BUt then, unless we are in a continuus state of observation - are we continously always meddling with the mindscape one way or the other? Setting intention , desiring outcomes. God on No God. Arent we taking part in changing the play, upstaging the director, the playwright one way or the other.

Isnt every upstaging also written into the meta play?

What is one to do?

To do or not to do?

Even non doing actively is still doing - reminds ramana.

In flow, even doing feels like non doing - from expereince.

In earlier attempts to create full length work. Infact in earlier writings big or small, iremember most of it being largely dark, and not wanting to share / put out there the very dark ones.

My first play, petticoats still sits in paper after many rewritings.Because i couldnt bring myself to put much dark ness out there. Because in the process of rewiting it, i felt i had given into something very dark and powerful, and expereinced wanting to manipulate - lash out at the audience. Expereinced being manipulated - my own life giving way at the seams and lines got blurred.

Powerful forces, i have now come to understand.

Similar experience with the art therpay project too.

And now a word to get a sense of it - archetypes.

But hey! I survived. I am writing this am i not. So what am i scared of? The pain and agony and confusion. Losing balance. Giving into the dark egoistic mind.

Somewhere the mind gents hijacked - i stop being the story teller / reseacher and becomes a character - self obsessed and seeking power. One of the default slip intos.

So what am i saying?

So basically, i am/you are saying, i/you want to open this door. But i know this dragon awaits behind it. I have lost it, been mauled by it multiple times. And i am shit scared of opening that door and being mauled.

Is there a way for me to tame the dragon?

Or should i just walk away from the door and forget all about the dragon. There is a very good chance that it might reappear else where. Atleast in this case, it is a known devil.

My sisters instagram post just read “ My friend is an artist. And he likes my company. Do i need more validation?”

A muse, channeler of inspiration. One has been that. But that didnt suffice. I want to be “one of them”, clearly. Yet, i want nothing to do with them clearly.

Do i weild a tool, a weapon or not.

If i weild it, i can choose not to use it.

If i dont weild it?

I suppose there is so much ego still left in me, that i dont want to play second fiddle. I want my own sunshine.

Or ……..

Lets look at it another way

is it an exercise is self discovery self knowlege? Then the entire approach is observational - comprehend and understand and question the self - rather than say and state.

An enquirey. v/s An expression

All enquireys are expressions

All expressions need not be enquireys

What is the fundamental question - Abhishek had asked. In my first playwrighting process.

I thought, at that time, that it had to be an intelligent question

Today after a decade of life, i understand that to be - What is the question i am/you are/ one is seeking to find an answer to? What are you grappling with? Articulate it into a question the best you can and explore it the medium of writing aplay. Use your imagination - to move characters- change them, puppeterr - but remember the essence - it is not for you to gain power. Play god, no and then let it go into your head. And be devoured by your own demon. No. Thats happened enough now. So we now know what not to do. And what this is not.

Now the essence is to - very clearly, scientifically - explore humbly. Approach your gift of imagination - humbly. Opening the door gently. Entering softly - EVERY TIME. With great respect.

And work / play there with the questions.

And quietly and humbly leave. Taking no more. Demanding no more that thevery process of observation and meaning making.

Reminds me of sandplay.

In the 6 pages and 2 hours, i feel a certain reassurance. I feel like i have asked, without really knowing how to ask. And have been answered to. Quietly.

Keep the frame wide. And work fiercely to be regular. But with gentleness. And deep honesty.

Go on and write.

You can make meaning in many ways for yourself. Writing is one of your earliest tools. Use it to make friends with the dragon behind the door.

You have a very solid physical practise to ground yourself, to navigate the storms. The body practice and the garden. Trust that.

Between the two, the earthing of the physical discipline and access to the mindscapes, you will start finding meaning.

That itself is the purpose. To find meaning.

Remember to enter mindscape, imagination only after knocking on its door. And to close the door behind you as you leave.

It is the great seas. You know that already. Offer her respects. She will test you to see if you have come/become greeedy. Remind her and yourself that youve come for meaning. ANd truth.

Meaning is truth after all. Layers stacked up, coinciding for a perfect opening. Insight.

Where is love in all this? I wondered

What is not love? Pat comes the answer.

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