(no subject)
Well, I guess one does end up coming back to the place where it all began, and in my case I just have to do it with my tail between my legs.
After email, and orkut, and othe runkind and unfriendly places- here I am, home.
This is the place where people do not post adverts for aphrodisiacs on Virginia Woolf communities. This is the place where you don't see WEirD T#$yPiN'' man.
This is the place where you're strange, but the so is everybody.
Home, it feels like home.
O.K. got that off my chest.
I've not been updating due to laziness, inertia, exams, and the availability of a book of Absurd Plays.
And as I've come to theatre, I'll start off with -
A Meeting With Faisal Alkazi.
Who directs the production we put up once a year. Whose father was one of the Thes of Indian Theatre.
Faisal Alkazi, who walks through my school surrounded by teachers, lest a student glimpse any part of his exalted being. Surrounded by teachers lest he see the death and decay and degeneration which devours the school.
Anyway, I got to meet, after walking all over the blocks, searching for his secret hideaway, and starting everytime I saw the red eye of a surveillance camera upon me. Finally a rather loquacious but fairly kind [ to me] librarian asked him what time I could see him at the guest house where he was staying.
Which was lovely place - green, birds, white wrought iron. And we talked, awkwardly of absurd theatre, theatre in India, 1984.
And I felt that talking to the Brecht Lady was better.
Then realised, that for the first time talking to someone, it was probably good.
I don't know exactly what it means to me, this conversation, but it does feel nice to fold it up, and to pull it out and look at it occassionaly.
Milk Powder with fungus on it is the fate of my love
And now, being me I am too sleepy to write.
After email, and orkut, and othe runkind and unfriendly places- here I am, home.
This is the place where people do not post adverts for aphrodisiacs on Virginia Woolf communities. This is the place where you don't see WEirD T#$yPiN'' man.
This is the place where you're strange, but the so is everybody.
Home, it feels like home.
O.K. got that off my chest.
I've not been updating due to laziness, inertia, exams, and the availability of a book of Absurd Plays.
And as I've come to theatre, I'll start off with -
A Meeting With Faisal Alkazi.
Who directs the production we put up once a year. Whose father was one of the Thes of Indian Theatre.
Faisal Alkazi, who walks through my school surrounded by teachers, lest a student glimpse any part of his exalted being. Surrounded by teachers lest he see the death and decay and degeneration which devours the school.
Anyway, I got to meet, after walking all over the blocks, searching for his secret hideaway, and starting everytime I saw the red eye of a surveillance camera upon me. Finally a rather loquacious but fairly kind [ to me] librarian asked him what time I could see him at the guest house where he was staying.
Which was lovely place - green, birds, white wrought iron. And we talked, awkwardly of absurd theatre, theatre in India, 1984.
And I felt that talking to the Brecht Lady was better.
Then realised, that for the first time talking to someone, it was probably good.
I don't know exactly what it means to me, this conversation, but it does feel nice to fold it up, and to pull it out and look at it occassionaly.
Milk Powder with fungus on it is the fate of my love
And now, being me I am too sleepy to write.