Cheesy, yes. And I know that many people don't appreciate Peter Sellers' The Party. It was actually BANNED in India during the 70s. I've never figured out why. It would be a bit like Britain banning Mr. Bean. I loved The Party, and never quite felt I was laughing "at" Hrundi V. Bakshi, more like "with" him. Besides, he was the nicest character in the film - innocent, self-accepting, playful, heroic, chivalrous, principled.
Ah - a clown!
But people have a hard time accepting clowns, perhaps. Recently, I had a doubly saddening experience when a recovering-alcoholic friend of mine called me up, quite drunk. Not only was I saddened and worried by his falling off the wagon, but then he went on to tell me how worried he was that I had become a clown!
Huh?Apparently my wonderful ability to switch between Nazu and Gladys had him frantically fearing the disappearance of Nazu altogether, leaving the world with Gladys alone. Hmmm. Gladys is lovely but I'm not about to hand over my life to her!
Anyway, I take that as a compliment and affirmation of my acting abilities! But apart from this, he also went on to talk about how clowning was not only harmful (as in the danger of the clown in you taking over a la The Exorcist) but also how humiliating it was.
Of course, he was drunk, so this was coming from a somewhat unclear mind, on top of his own perceptions or projections about what a clown is and does. To me, there's nothing humiliating about being a clown. It's wonderfully freeing, and to me, the most noble profession I could have stumbled across. My plastic red nose shares living quarters with the Rolex my dad bequeathed to me when he retired. And is just as precious.
Perhaps the people who banned The Party had the same perceptions and projections about the character of Hrundi V. Bakshi. Which brings me back to why I've titled this post as I did.
Severine and I are now partners - we signed a contract today and will run the Dr Clown India program together. All voluntary and honorary and all that (as in 'no money') but oh so rewarding and so much fun. I am HUGELY excited about it. And also about having Severine as a partner - she's a wonderful person and a brilliant clown, and I think we complement each other so well, I can't wait to see how we develop Dr Clown. (And if you can't wait either, then keep checking in here to find out how it's going.)
Monday, 25 June 2007
Tuesday, 19 June 2007
Once Upon Dusty Floorboards
Once upon dusty floorboards, I smelt a rose, and thought of trees.
To be honest, it wasn't once upon, it was just yesterday, in my acting class. I sat on the floor, breathing heavily - no, gasping, if I remember correctly - after some ghastly and very sadistic body work exercise that had us all running, hopping, waving our arms about and sweating a lot.
I thought of trees as I ran my fingers over old and new nails pounded through the wooden panel flooring of this little hall at Baldwin Boys' School. I wondered how many trees were part of the hall. And how long they had been there. I wondered what the panels might have looked like when they were new, when they were somebody's pride, to be waxed and polished on a regular basis. I wondered if the soul and spirit of each tree was still present there in those boards. Is wood dead? As long as it is still wood, perhaps that inner energy and wisdom of the tree is still within, ebbing slowly, very slowly, as the years go by and the wood wears down and years of dust and indifference gradually stifle it.
And once upon those dusty floorboards - still yesterday - I smelt a rose, although I did not see one: just a slender stalk and three leaves still perfect. The rose had gone, perhaps crumpled into someone's pocket or hymn book or cleavage. The stalk with its three leaves lay there so prettily and poignantly, I had to pick it up. And was rewarded with the divine fragrance of the long-gone rose, still clinging to those leaves.
I must have used it all up, because no one else who took a whiff could smell that fragrance. Perhaps it was just meant for me.
To be honest, it wasn't once upon, it was just yesterday, in my acting class. I sat on the floor, breathing heavily - no, gasping, if I remember correctly - after some ghastly and very sadistic body work exercise that had us all running, hopping, waving our arms about and sweating a lot.
I thought of trees as I ran my fingers over old and new nails pounded through the wooden panel flooring of this little hall at Baldwin Boys' School. I wondered how many trees were part of the hall. And how long they had been there. I wondered what the panels might have looked like when they were new, when they were somebody's pride, to be waxed and polished on a regular basis. I wondered if the soul and spirit of each tree was still present there in those boards. Is wood dead? As long as it is still wood, perhaps that inner energy and wisdom of the tree is still within, ebbing slowly, very slowly, as the years go by and the wood wears down and years of dust and indifference gradually stifle it.
And once upon those dusty floorboards - still yesterday - I smelt a rose, although I did not see one: just a slender stalk and three leaves still perfect. The rose had gone, perhaps crumpled into someone's pocket or hymn book or cleavage. The stalk with its three leaves lay there so prettily and poignantly, I had to pick it up. And was rewarded with the divine fragrance of the long-gone rose, still clinging to those leaves.
I must have used it all up, because no one else who took a whiff could smell that fragrance. Perhaps it was just meant for me.
Monday, 18 June 2007
Before the show.
Here are a few pix from rehearsals at the Alliance Francaise before our show.The first pic is of Biclown and Gladys with the little French "pixies" who put on a wonderful acrobatic routine with Fabiola and Miss Rose on The Planet of Acrogaz.
Next we have Mamu looking very happy with his lady friends from the Planet of Fire! Fabiola (the pixies' leader is second from right, and if your eyesight is better than mine, you'd already have noticed Miss Rose peeking in from behind.Finally Miss Rose in one of her delightful specially tailored outfits (Calvin Klown, I think) with Eric, director of Alliance, a man who appears to be a sedate professional here, but later turned into an hilarious Crowd Checker at the show, armed with his feather duster to dust the heads of people in the audience (and Gladys, much to her surprise!) after zooming around the stage and ramps on his bicycle and honking a wonderful bulb horn!
I must get me one of those horns. They take me back to my childhood when every self-respecting auto rickshaw was equipped with one. Nowadays all the autos have those irritating hi-tech buttons that go "nyeet-nyeet-nyeet", and I do so miss the mellow "pwarrrrmp" of those old bulb horns.
Gladys goes to Alcatraz.
Or so she thought. There she was, clowning merrily, when suddenly a stern security guard informed her that she was wanted in the Administration department. Well, the nose was on and there were children present, so I couldn't come to her rescue. So off she went, calling for her lawyer and her mummy, and trying to get "the policeman" to handcuff her. Needless to say, the children and other patients found all this quite funny.
Finally, in the administration dept, the nose came off and all was revealed. It was a simple case of miscommunication, or in this case, no communication. The ward sister hadn't been informed about Dr Clown's visits, so when she saw Gladys and Mamu clomping happily down her corridors, she must have thought, "Who on earth are these two clowns?" (literally!) and called Security!
All sorted out amicably, once we explained that we had the approval of both the hospital director and the head of paediatrics. There were a few extra journeys up and down because the Security guy's colleagues hadn't been updated and so they refused to let the clowns back in to the wards! Gladys being a lady of some leisure waited and blew bubbles while Mamu chivalrously made these perilous trips back and forth to prove their innocence.
Eventually got back in, and the whole funny little mishap ended up making us all good buddies. Unfortunately we've not had the opportunity to go clowning there since (do hope they don't think we're sulking or scared of), as one week Mamu had a cold, one week we were tied up with rehearsals for our show, and then last week I had a bad stomach. (We don't go clowning if we have any such illnesses, so that there is no risk of passing infections to sick children whose resistance is already compromised).
But joy! Tomorrow is Tuesday, Mamu and Gladys both seem to be fine, and we shall head for St Phil's at 10.30 a.m. inshallah! Stay tuned .. though I really should write about the show first. Major clown backlog. But my Filofax will keep me on track ..
Finally, in the administration dept, the nose came off and all was revealed. It was a simple case of miscommunication, or in this case, no communication. The ward sister hadn't been informed about Dr Clown's visits, so when she saw Gladys and Mamu clomping happily down her corridors, she must have thought, "Who on earth are these two clowns?" (literally!) and called Security!
All sorted out amicably, once we explained that we had the approval of both the hospital director and the head of paediatrics. There were a few extra journeys up and down because the Security guy's colleagues hadn't been updated and so they refused to let the clowns back in to the wards! Gladys being a lady of some leisure waited and blew bubbles while Mamu chivalrously made these perilous trips back and forth to prove their innocence.
Eventually got back in, and the whole funny little mishap ended up making us all good buddies. Unfortunately we've not had the opportunity to go clowning there since (do hope they don't think we're sulking or scared of), as one week Mamu had a cold, one week we were tied up with rehearsals for our show, and then last week I had a bad stomach. (We don't go clowning if we have any such illnesses, so that there is no risk of passing infections to sick children whose resistance is already compromised).
But joy! Tomorrow is Tuesday, Mamu and Gladys both seem to be fine, and we shall head for St Phil's at 10.30 a.m. inshallah! Stay tuned .. though I really should write about the show first. Major clown backlog. But my Filofax will keep me on track ..
Saturday, 16 June 2007
Learning from Forrest's grandfather.
This is pilgrimage.
Journeying not to, but with.
Destination: me.
We're always on some path. Every breath is another step forward, right? Yet we're so focused on where we're going, or where we want to be. I'm beginning to see that the travelling is more important than the arrival, and that seeking inward is more rewarding than seeking outward.
I'm reading a wonderful children's book, The Education of Little Tree; a true story by Forrest Carter, who was raised by his Cherokee (Native American) grandparents, and there is a lot in that book to inspire me. The grandfather - what a grand grandfather he must have been. I'm awed by the wisdom of his spirituality, I'm humbled by the depth in the simplicity of his ways.
Afterthought: why must the original inhabitants of that continent be called "Native" Americans? Why aren't they called Americans, and the others called Immigrant Americans? They were there from the first. Every one else arrived.
Journeying not to, but with.
Destination: me.
We're always on some path. Every breath is another step forward, right? Yet we're so focused on where we're going, or where we want to be. I'm beginning to see that the travelling is more important than the arrival, and that seeking inward is more rewarding than seeking outward.
I'm reading a wonderful children's book, The Education of Little Tree; a true story by Forrest Carter, who was raised by his Cherokee (Native American) grandparents, and there is a lot in that book to inspire me. The grandfather - what a grand grandfather he must have been. I'm awed by the wisdom of his spirituality, I'm humbled by the depth in the simplicity of his ways.
Afterthought: why must the original inhabitants of that continent be called "Native" Americans? Why aren't they called Americans, and the others called Immigrant Americans? They were there from the first. Every one else arrived.
Solitude
I often wonder what it is. I seem to have it. I'm very content on my own, and I value my me-time. I love my home and my work and you could lock me in here for a month and I probably wouldn't get bored (irritable maybe, once the cigarettes ran out). Sometimes, though, I worry that I "ought" to be wildly social. Sometimes I fear that I am confusing alone and lonely. But that's not often, and usually it is other people who confuse the two and wonder how I can live alone and spend so much time alone without getting bored, scared or depressed.I do - boredom, fear, depression, loneliness: they all come into my life, and are hard to take. But there's a huge difference in my alone moments and my lonely ones. Often my loneliest moments are when I'm surrounded by other people.
Books, music, pen, paint.
Alone is easy for me.
Lonely is harder.
When I'm lonely, it's usually one or two specific special people in my life that I'm missing, not just the presence of other bodies. I guess the reason I find alone easy is because I like my own company just as much as I like the company of those special people. Goodness! I like myself! Hmmm .. I see another haiku noodle in there, but it's time to get back to work. And I've been telling myself that I need to write more authentic haiku instead of just following the syllabic count. But not today.
Books, music, pen, paint.
Alone is easy for me.
Lonely is harder.
When I'm lonely, it's usually one or two specific special people in my life that I'm missing, not just the presence of other bodies. I guess the reason I find alone easy is because I like my own company just as much as I like the company of those special people. Goodness! I like myself! Hmmm .. I see another haiku noodle in there, but it's time to get back to work. And I've been telling myself that I need to write more authentic haiku instead of just following the syllabic count. But not today.
Friday, 15 June 2007
Over-awed by her beauty, Mamoo forgets how to take decent photographs.
Gladys is most upset. Mamoo's brave attempts to photograph her are shaky, to say the least. Seen (I use the term loosely) here, is Gladys with Prashant and Ashwita - brother and sister if I remember correctly. Fortunately my memory is not as blurry as these pictures, so I can tell you that in the first, Prashant and Gladys have struck "Don" poses in honour of Shah Rukh Clown - Gladys' boyfriend .. allegedly .. well, she does have long romantic phone conversations with him on that plastic banana she carries around.
Quite a striking chap, this Shah Rukh Clown. I was initially intrigued by his resemblance to one Shah Rukh KHAN: quite uncanny likeness, apart from the red nose. Gladys says this is because they are distant relatives, cousins of some sort. Apparently this Shah Rukh Khan cannot walk freely down the street for fear of being mobbed by fans of HER Shah Rukh. Poor man. To be nearly as irresistible as Shah Rukh Clown is, it appears, both a gift and a curse.
In the second picture, Gladys is using her stetho-ho-scope to do a laughter check on little Ashwita. Test results showed that the child was hale and ha-ha-hearty.
Have filofax. Will clown.
This is turning out to be serious business. Being a nostalgic type, I decided to go for something sentimental and, being unimpressed by Blackberrys and mutant mobile phones that can do everything except laundry, I decided to get myself Ye Olde Filofax.
The last time I owned a Filofax they were the New, In Thing. And of course, they're now called "organisers" because Filofax is really a brand name. But all those notebook sized ring-binder folders will always be Filofaxes to me. Like Hoovers and Xerox and IBMs. So I'm outdated. Shoot me.
But not this week. My Filofax says I'm too busy. It has been a hectic fortnight, so hectic I haven't time to write about my clowning - which has been going wonderfully. From an interesting episode at St Philomena's to the mad rush of rehearsals for our Docteur Clown show at Alliance Francaise, and the actual show itself. Details - including news reports and some lovely photographs - in posts to come. Watch this space.
Have filofax. Will clown.
This is turning out to be serious business. Being a nostalgic type, I decided to go for something sentimental and, being unimpressed by Blackberrys and mutant mobile phones that can do everything except laundry, I decided to get myself Ye Olde Filofax.
The last time I owned a Filofax they were the New, In Thing. And of course, they're now called "organisers" because Filofax is really a brand name. But all those notebook sized ring-binder folders will always be Filofaxes to me. Like Hoovers and Xerox and IBMs. So I'm outdated. Shoot me.
But not this week. My Filofax says I'm too busy. It has been a hectic fortnight, so hectic I haven't time to write about my clowning - which has been going wonderfully. From an interesting episode at St Philomena's to the mad rush of rehearsals for our Docteur Clown show at Alliance Francaise, and the actual show itself. Details - including news reports and some lovely photographs - in posts to come. Watch this space.
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