I had to write this one down..
Its a bit smarmy so I thought a couple of times..but its for me. A sort of reminder.
I realize I've been nicest to the bitches. The ones who treated me really badly. And we all do that.
This one situation particularly where I was adored {Muse-style which is really not as wonderful as it sounds), and i adored right back. However, he was really nasty to me at times. I mean, really really nasty. And he's the only one i get teary over. The one i painfully/lovingly indulge in memories of. I have some nice ex boyfriends, who i simply have a coffee and a laugh with a coupla times a year. This one, is what I had down as The One. Why? Thats what I cant figure out. Its not the mad maverick quality of it all or the fact that I felt a bit like Princess Charming to the rescue. Sure we had some exciting times- this one captured me like no one else.
But hell, he also treated me really badly. And somehow, after each worsening trauma(particularly post break which he didnt take kindly to) I forgave , forgot and generally grieved and hurt over someone who didnt seem to give too many damns about how I felt.
What is it about people we love who treat us badly? What makes it okay to hurt someone constantly and use affection or friendship as an excuse? I wrote this down because it came into my life this week. The realization that the fascinating fantasy had had no right to use me as a very metaphorical and at instances, literal punching bag.
And I was so wrapped up in giving someone else this advice, I almost forgot to take it myself. When did I forget to promise myself never to applaud or revere something that did not deserve it?
I'll try, really hard, not to forget that. I deserve that.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Save the paedophile
Dirty rotten scoundrel and his freshly stained sheets
Pangs of puberty, cut up and dried.
Holistic growth and rehab with a reason.
The news at nine, with fries on the side.
Flowers..
Roysten Abel's Flowers is the best piece of theatre I have ever had the privilege of watching. I say that with a curious amount of satisfaction. Probably because I"ve watched most of what goes on in India. And a small amount of foreign plays.And this man, from Kerala, is my new idol.
Writer Karnad's latest has a priest' almost divine and uncontrollable passion for the phallic representation of Lord Shiva versus his newfound, bewildering intoxication for a courtesan. It is a, well, nice story with a lot of potential. Some lovely lines in there, is what most of us would have said after a read.What we wouldn't have forseen is a brilliant director combining forces with an uncomparable actor, and creating a resonationg monologue that had little more than the sound of breathing in the auditorium.
Writer Karnad's latest has a priest' almost divine and uncontrollable passion for the phallic representation of Lord Shiva versus his newfound, bewildering intoxication for a courtesan. It is a, well, nice story with a lot of potential. Some lovely lines in there, is what most of us would have said after a read.What we wouldn't have forseen is a brilliant director combining forces with an uncomparable actor, and creating a resonationg monologue that had little more than the sound of breathing in the auditorium.
The Monologues..
So this is the new blog.
The one that I practice reality on.
Five women, all five of us are..definingly urban. And strangers. Thrown together by the desire to create an unabashed, fierce and dramatic forum. Where we can talk (albeit as a dialogue to an audience), and really understand what it means to be female and free and yet suppressed within our country. One of us is part Russian part Indian..the rest, modern Indian feminine forces. Or so we want to be.
Our conversations, are enriching. Our individual agendas, revelations.
Being Indian and urban, spells contempt on two of our artist lives. The struggle is strangely disorienting. Why does a tribal background or coming from a folk community spell greater acceptance in our careers? Exotic India wanted. As middle class urban women, are we less qualified for the arclights and applause because we're city bred and standardized models of urban chic? Fuck that. We have the fire, the talent and the intelligence. We can learn how to move like Kerala and talk like Punjab. We have understood Bengal and fallen in love with Marathi ire. we can. Why do we have to fight so hard to prove it? What makes reservaton okay? What allows discrimination condemning us to the pancake coated images that we want so desperately to shed. We are in love with the theatre. We are actors and cannot do anything else. We need to be given The Fair Chance.
One of us is a singer. Why is being a jazz musician and singing at a classy hotel so looked down upon in my country? In my home? Okay, screw that. Why have I felt discrimated against all my adult life? Too Indian abroad and not Indian enough at home?
Two of us are in love. With each other. The quiet writer and the religious dancer. A long love. Even though it seems like it may separate, it is only the lovers at stake. The friends will still fight to stay in each other's lives. Post trauma of course. One comment was " I came to grips with my sexuality, really confronted it, post realizing my bisexuality".. What about the rest? The straight ones ask.. Is being different the only route to being liberated? Why dont we talk as freely about our desires, our turning points, our bodies and the milestones of being a free woman?
Personally. my female influences are few and far between.
I look forward to meeting this exciting, beautiful group four times a week. I want to be free. Freer.
The one that I practice reality on.
Five women, all five of us are..definingly urban. And strangers. Thrown together by the desire to create an unabashed, fierce and dramatic forum. Where we can talk (albeit as a dialogue to an audience), and really understand what it means to be female and free and yet suppressed within our country. One of us is part Russian part Indian..the rest, modern Indian feminine forces. Or so we want to be.
Our conversations, are enriching. Our individual agendas, revelations.
Being Indian and urban, spells contempt on two of our artist lives. The struggle is strangely disorienting. Why does a tribal background or coming from a folk community spell greater acceptance in our careers? Exotic India wanted. As middle class urban women, are we less qualified for the arclights and applause because we're city bred and standardized models of urban chic? Fuck that. We have the fire, the talent and the intelligence. We can learn how to move like Kerala and talk like Punjab. We have understood Bengal and fallen in love with Marathi ire. we can. Why do we have to fight so hard to prove it? What makes reservaton okay? What allows discrimination condemning us to the pancake coated images that we want so desperately to shed. We are in love with the theatre. We are actors and cannot do anything else. We need to be given The Fair Chance.
One of us is a singer. Why is being a jazz musician and singing at a classy hotel so looked down upon in my country? In my home? Okay, screw that. Why have I felt discrimated against all my adult life? Too Indian abroad and not Indian enough at home?
Two of us are in love. With each other. The quiet writer and the religious dancer. A long love. Even though it seems like it may separate, it is only the lovers at stake. The friends will still fight to stay in each other's lives. Post trauma of course. One comment was " I came to grips with my sexuality, really confronted it, post realizing my bisexuality".. What about the rest? The straight ones ask.. Is being different the only route to being liberated? Why dont we talk as freely about our desires, our turning points, our bodies and the milestones of being a free woman?
Personally. my female influences are few and far between.
I look forward to meeting this exciting, beautiful group four times a week. I want to be free. Freer.
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