Dreams of a Life.

Two weeks ago; it’s a rainy Sunday morning in Brighton and I’m in a cinema alone watching Carol Morley’s film ‘Dreams of a Life’ a docu-drama (and an excellent use of this genre) about the tragic story of Joyce Carol Vincent – and I just can’t get it out of my head.

Vincent’s decomposed body was found in a North London bedsit – it had remained there for 3 years. A TV tuned to BBC1 accompanied the rotting corpse  until the discovery by bailiffs in 2006.

The testimony from her friends, lovers, workmates; that had drifted in and out of her life weave through the dramatised sequences, adding clues to unravel the story of how and why Vincent could have tread on this earth for 38 years, but yet leave it alone. And why it would be down to a filmmaker to investigate who she was.

Ironically, Vincent died watching TV, for many a ‘social lifeline’, in same way social networks somehow make the world seem a smaller place but yet perhaps heighten our distance from each other in this modern landscape; our ‘hyper-connected’ world fooling us into thinking we aren’t alone.

I think it had such a strong resonence because I regognised her world – geograpically I lived very close to her for a few months in my mid twenties, and psychologically I’ve had my moments of relishing that anonymity, the ‘emotional wasteground’ of London delivers so brilliantly.

In parallel with watching her story unfold,  I’m acknowledging my own story; the missed opportunities, broken friendships, failed relationships punctuating through my 34 years. A deeply moving, deeply frightening and poignant story of isolation.

http://www.dreamsofyourlife.com/

RIP Joyce Carol Vincent.

There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out…

…a belated blog about my New year retreat in the Spanish mountains. 

Blue Bird by Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

 

For the last 6 months I have been immersed in the world of bariatric surgery and met some wonderful and inspiring people..it’s currently airing on ‘Really’ channel on freeview.

It was a bit like Eat, Prey, Love but without the romance.

PART TWO

So the bus to Varanasi. It was an eventful 8 hours. 2 tyre blow outs, then the drunken bus driver runs out if petrol 5km outside Varanasi. I take a rickshaw with fellow yogis Aton and Kev, and a couple of friendly monks we met on the bus. Finally, I find myself riding very fast on the back of a motorbike through the alleys to find a guesthouse.

Each morning on my way to the old town I walk past the one of the burning ghats, a powerful and moving experience. There is nothing like watching a few corpses burn before breakfast. I’m told it takes 3 hours for a corpse to burn, and only men would attend the cremation. After the burning the men would wash in the Ganga. 13 days later they would return to scatter the ashes in the Ganga. This is said to ensure liberation from the cycle of death and rebirth. Children and pregnant women do not get cremated, they are floated in the river, as the lungs fill with water they sink to the bottom and are eaten by the fishes.

9th February, 6pm on the roof of the Ganga bank hotel – the sun has just set. Chanting and prayors can we heard in all directions. Varanasi could be so peaceful.

A week later, I’m in Jaipur. This was challenging times. It’s a busy and dusty city – ‘the pink city’ as it is affectionately dubbed, but it wasn’t really all that pink. More a sort of dirty brown. The only thing it seemed to have on offer was shopping. The bazars were sprawling, difficult to navigate and full of the same old shit. The only redeeming feature was the roof top restaurant at the Pearl Palace hotel where I ate most of my meals, although to reach it I had to cross many roads, the trick was just to start walking out, and then weave in and out of the motorcycles, rickshaws, cars, buses and really just hope for the best. I was very happy to be heading to Pushkar.

Oh, I have completely missed out my two days in Agra where I didn’t visit the Taj Mahal. One morning I did get out of bed, and joined the queue at 6am. But then thunder and lightning stuck, rain followed so I sharply head back to my hotel and my bed. It wasn’t meant to be.

The two hour bus journey from Jaipur to Pushkar via Ajmer, I was in a terrible mood. Dukkha in abundance, I was longing for another vipassana more than ever. After Ajmer the bus continued onto Pushkar, this is where the journey starts to get interesting. We wind through Nag Pahar (snake mountain) passing temples and families of monkies on the road side. The landscape is beautiful, I get off the bus and this Hindu pilgrimage town works it’s magic, calm transcends the angst. I feel happy to bealive again.

Brahma dropped a lotus flower on the earth and Pushkar appeared.

I find a room at lake view hotel. 100 rupees a night, my cheapest room yet. No bathroom or window but it’s just perfect. Up some steps I find the restaurant with it’s vistas of the sacred lake. The rows of ghats march down to the lake from hundreds of milky blue temples.

I spot Pilgrims and hippies. I feel at home for the first time on this trip.

A week later I’m on an over night bus from Pushkar to Jaisalmer. Ten hours in my sleeper compartment- a kind of pod. It would be fine, but the roads are so bumpy you are flown about all over the place. Luckily, Jaisalmer is the last stop as I am still sleeping when we arrive. I’m woken by the man sweeping the bus. I jump down, grab my bags and ahead of me is an empty dusty road. I am in the desert. A jeep stops, and a man shouts “We’re heading to the fort. Jump in.” I jump in and head to the fort to find a guest house.

What do you do when it rains in the desert? Play the rizla game of course!

Jaisalmer is the place you go to do to a Camel safari. I book with Delboy at Trotters Camel Safari as recommended by James Burt 6.30 am the next day we set off in a jeep (myself and 6 others) for the short trip to meet up with our camels and guides. It was wonderful, riding the camels – even through they were spewing snot everywhere – they all had colds. And sleeping under a blanket of stars was very special and the chai brought to us in bed by the guides tasted amazing (and they used baby formula as milk?!). Oh and the bhang cookies and the cold Kingfisher beer on the first night! A man rides on camel 10 km to deliver cold beer. Amazing.

But what could be more painful that riding a camel for 3 days? I was about to find out…

A second Vipassana completes the trip. This time at dharma pushkar, which teaches the Goenka’s technique and notoriously strict. The 4 am wake up call was a bit of a giveaway. No phyical excercise is allowed, no Reading, no writing, no eye contact. We didn’t even have jobs to do. Doing your laundry was the only extra curricular/ recreational activity.

I was counting down the days/hours/minutes – from day 1. The food was horrible, the female teacher wasn’t the most inspiring person – she was very unhappy, didn’t speak any English and a bit scary, the 4am wake up call was just impossible. My body hurt. I was suffering- mentally and physically. I was telling myself I can get more insight from practicing in the real world. Insight? Hmm, well I’m just in a really bad mood all day everyday. The setting was stunning, the accommodation was nice, there were beautiful mountain vistas, and by evening stars shining bright, but that was no consolation for the suffering I was enduring.

I feel like a school child deliberately disobeying the rules as I write secretly. Any Reading or writing or physical exercise is strictly forbidden under the Goenka rules. Men are seperated from women and there seems to be an awful lot of porridge. Day 5 I made the bold move of filling out an official request slip asking for only a banana for tea. The 5pm cup of chai and banana was the only thing I had to look forward to, Oh and here is the timetable…

THE COURSE TIMETABLE

The following timetable for the course has been designed to maintain the continuity of practice. For best results students are advised to follow it as closely as possible.

4:00 am		Morning wake-up bell
4:30-6:30 am		Meditate in the hall or in your room
6:30-8:00 am		Breakfast break
8:00-9:00 am		Group meditation in the hall
9:00-11:00 am		Meditate in the hall or in your room according to the teacher’s instructions
11:00-12:00 noon		Lunch break
12noon-1:00 pm		Rest and interviews with the teacher
1:00-2:30 pm		Meditate in the hall or in your room
2:30-3:30 pm		Group meditation in the hall
3:30-5:00 pm		Meditate in the hall or in your own room according to the teacher’s instructions
5:00-6:00 pm		Tea break
6:00-7:00 pm		Group meditation in the hall
7:00-8:15 pm		Teacher’s Discourse in the hall
8:15-9:00 pm		Group meditation in the hall
9:00-9:30 pm		Question time in the hall
9:30 pm		Retire to your own room–Lights out

I’ve been back in England a week – 10 days since finishing the Goenka vipassana, and I am truly reaping the rewards of 100 hours of meditation! It works. I have jet lag, I’m trying to find a job, I have delayed delhi belly but it’s all perfect. I’m watching my negative thoughts arise and pass.

I ride the waves of my states of mind with equanimity. My practice has changed, I am viewing the world through different eyes. Although, I’m struggling to understand where I go from here, there are some obstacles but also some forks in the road and I am adjusting to the fact I just don’t know myself any more.

I have experienced peace, contentment and equanimity  - and I do believe liberation is possible within this lifetime. Whether I’ll return to a Goenka meditation bootcamp..hmmm. Only time will tell. Back in my office at work I’m asked if it was like Eat, Pray, Love – my intial reaction is ‘No!’ but I suppose it was a bit but without the romance and medicine man, although I did get my chakras rebalanced by a reiki man – does that count?

Om Shanti.

My two months in India. Two Vipassanas with some camel trekking in the middle. My trip starts with a guru on the plane…

PART ONE

My trip starts with a guru on the plane feeling my energy. “are you ok?” he inquires. He feels my energy and explains there is something I just need to let go of. He also asked if I have come to India to ‘find’ myself. I cringed inside and said firmly “no, I haven’t.”

January 20th 2011, I arrive in India, forgetting how noisy the place is; the sensory overload begins in Delhi and a process of learning to spend time alone has begun.

After two days of meandering through dusty streets and fighting with chaos I arrive at New Delhi train station to start my journey to Bodhgaya.

I find my sleeper carriage, with some help. A line of young men stretching half the length of the train has formed. I’m told it’s marriage season. February is a very auspicious time to get married, so they’ll all be heading back to their villages to find a bride. The queue is to get a place in the general class part of the train. I’m told fight often break out in the scram to board the train.

On the train I read about ‘dowry deaths’ in low income families. Girls are considered a big financial liability. And in the urban middle classes bride burning occurs – women doused in petrol and set alight if they are unable to have children.

20 hours later I arrive in Gaya. A rickshaw takes me to Bodhgaya. It’s dusty, dirty, and yet another sensory overload.

My guesthouse was in one of the villages – there were children, chickens, goats, puppies, cows all running free- it really was delightful colourful chaos. I searched out the Bodhi tree and met the friendly monk who had helped me find my guest house. He didn’t speak English but did do sportswear monk style – and wore a very cool orange Adidas track top whilst wearing his orange robes. We drank chai together, then I followed him to the Mahabodhi temple to meditate while he chanted. I was surprised at how few westerners, but I was also overwhelmed  by the suffering and poverty so abundant. Bihar is India’s poorest state and I was told people travel the Bodhgaya from all over Bihar to beg.

The day arrives for the Christopher Titmus Insight meditation at the Thai monastery. Bring it on.

I am issued with my plate and cup for the next ten days. Silence is now in force. I’m very happy to be in this quiet space I am sharing with 35 other people all living, working, practicing together in silence. Early on I notice a distinct lack of ritual. Lots of reverence to the dharma but no bows to the shrine, no chanting, offerings to the Buddha. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this and it was a complete contrast to the emphatic acts of reverence I experienced around the Mahabodhi temple , most notably the 108 prostrations.

I was expecting a tortuous ten days of sitting – which it was, but also a very nurturing experience. The silence was bliss. It was wonderful to watch the awareness rising, the flowers in the garden would look more and more radiant as the days passed. I’d capture moments of joy before they float away to be replaced by something else.

5th February. My 33rd birthday. At 5.30 the bell is rung. A fellow yogi beats a singing bowl whilst parading through the grounds if the monastery. The day has begun it’s day 9 of the vipassana. The sound of the bell softens – the bell ringer is has now reached the mens dorm or ‘cave’ as it is affectionately refered to. It’s the basement of the temple. It doesn’t quite glitter and glisten like the exterior. Although it does come with it’s very own pee bucket located outside their hatch. Back in my dorm I share with 3 other girls there was a fourth but she left on day 7. The bell returns as the bell ringer has finished his circuit around the monastery. I slide out of bed, grab my blanket and head for the 545 am yoga session.

The day is split between sitting, teachings, walking meditations. Finishing at 930 pm with a hot drink before bed.

Every two days there is opportunity to report in during the group sessions. Reports of ‘resting in equanimity’ and ‘dancing hearts’ start flowing, along with deep rooted psychological obstructions.

During a walking meditation I walk down the track towards the gate – catch a glimpse of the world outside – a scary place! Anxiety about leaving the retreat is arising.

A sangha is created in the beautiful glittering and glistening Thai Monastery. We live together as a community, chop vegetables, clean toilets, empty the mens pee bucket and ring bells together, in silence.

On the tenth day, the silence is broken during breakfast. While our hearts are wide open we are introduced to some local projects. I was particularly inspired by Sister Mary and the ‘Forum for Women’s awakening’ project.  Their aims being to campaign for gender equality and facilitate economic self-reliance through micro-credit loans, promote organic farming, provide cost-effective and eco-friendly energy sources and support education for dalit girls. Bihar is India’s poorest state. 44.3% live below the poverty line. That’s estimated at 37 million people. I had a tour of a village by where the micro credit scheme has been running for a while – it was so inspiring to meet some of the women whose lives had been transformed by obtaining a micro loan – which enabled them to buy a goat or to set up a shop in the village or to sell bangles.

. 

I sat under the bodhi tree and reflected on the vipassana and how I was truly able to cultivate joy and bring love to the ‘i’ that has the desire for liberation. I watched the self who clings slowly dissolve away and watched the road behind fall away, and a path ahead unfold…

With good will for the entire cosmos,

cultivate a limitless heart:

Above, below, & all around,

unobstructed, without hostility or hate.

Metta Sutta.

Next up.. Varanasi

Beautiful shadow puppet animation!

The Collection

It’s a story of hopes, dreams, chemically induced perfumes, synthetic rubber and sibling rivalry.

It gave holidays and school trips a purpose.

I had my favorites.
Usually they were the ones that were least functional.

The flower pot one or the soap power ones rated highly.
I also liked recognisable brands.

The Tatton Park t-shirt shaped one – they couldn’t all rock my seven year old world.
Some were just souvenirs and sought to ‘bulk’ up the collection.

Some were kept in original packaging, some not.
But never would they be used, in fact they probably wouldn’t even be very affective.
They served as mere trophies and one up-man-ship tools.

My sister collecting in parallel, was fierce competition.

15 years later I would be reunited with the collection.
I’ve now got a career, a car and a cat.

I open the box, and that delightful aroma of artificial chemically enhanced, and perhaps toxicity pervades.
Although, I sit smug acutely aware that the eraser collection in front of my also includes my sister’s.

stories, dreams, fairytales, mythology and the drama of real life.

I’m blogging in an effort to find my focus and find a connection between things that interest me. So here goes…

I really couldn’t get enough of ‘Where the Wild’ things are. The wonderful plethora of characters – all so real. A story just so familiar; charming but tragic at the same time. But back to ‘Where the Wild things are’ watch watch watch! I came across this great blog: http://www.productiondesign.foke.org/where-the-wild-things-are-the-movie

Back in April I did a stop frame animation workshop called ‘Women and Dreams’

Early on in the workshop it became apparent that our dreams all shared a common thread. Tragedy and beauty of real life. The messyness, unsatisfactoryness of real life. Pain and torture we go through in our everyday life. The fears we encounter on our journeys. The circles go in, the tangled webs we weave, of our wheel of existence – samsara. Life and fantasy. Documentary. Drama. Stories.

Tonight, I wrote a poem, the catalyst was a Pema Chödrön audio book, a bad day at the office and a long train journey home.

Train. She. He, arm around her. Tick toc. Thirty gone. Corpses, dead bodies, bones, teeth, hair, rotting flesh. Chrysanthemums blooming radiantly. Sweet perfume. Shouting, panic, ambition, ego, greed, hate. The arrogance of it all. 

Sent from my iPhone

We’re all publishers in a multi-platform era.

The terms Multiplaform crossplatform transplatform seems to be batted about all over the place at the moment, but is the idea of creating a product across different mediums really a new concept?  Back in 2007 I worked on the Sick Rick campaign, a ‘crossplatform’ campaign for the British Heart foundation. I was reminded of this at a recent Screensouth event when I bumped into the animator Tim Searle.

The theme of the event was how to find new ways of developing audiences as well as maximising revenue, appropriately titled ‘Show me the money’.

I do wonder whether it is fueled by the TV industry being on deaths door and film industry in the UK not exactly blooming, that this craze has suddenly taken over? Or is it simple that our consuming media habits have changed? I’m undecided about whether us hungry producers are tapping into other creative sectors – like gaming/ web is a good idea or not.

TV companies and digital agencies working together, that is really interesting because you get the TV indies’ storytelling abilities and the digital agencies’ expertise about the digital world, such as how to seed audiences and grow and engage them, so perhaps it is exactly the partnership the TV industry needs right now.

So maybe it’s more ‘forging partnerships’ which should be the buzz words rather than crossplatform/ multiplatform/ transmedia and trying to become a jack of all mediums, master of none.

On a side note, Joe’s eggs is the most interesting platform I’ve come across recently. Poetry on eggs, can it make the world a better place?

http://rexelmatador.wordpress.com/2010/04/07/vladimir-malaprops-oval-anthology/

Which leads me onto the beautiful world of stories and storytelling – both fiction and documentary. Next blog.

The Story

So, I’m on the train from Brighton to London on my way to “The Story”  having not quite had enough sleep.  At 2 am I found myself engrossed with laptop in bed watching “One Born Every Minute” on 4OD. A cross-platform commission, Doc series by Firefly and website featuring feed from 40 cameras fixed within a maternity ward, which can be explored in narrative sequence, thematically or by contributor. Also, twitter feeds to announce births. I watched two episodes which played out like a brilliant drama  - characters so multi-dimensional, I was immediately drawn into their own individual stories, that crucial hook had got me. Which leads me to the point, it was the excellent storytelling took me on the fascinating 50 minute journey.

The Story 19 Feb 2010

I reach Conway Hall in central London. Wonderful venue, it feels like an old school hall, it feels perfect for the a day of visceral pleasure in the form of listening to and celebrating ‘The Story.” What follows below is some of the highlights and pointers I picked up.

Aleks Krotoski – audience creating their own stories to fashion a doc. The story of the process.

Tim Etchels  ”…falafel and fries microwaved homestyle with a Jackson Pollock of ketchup and mayo on the side.”

Sydney Badua – on referencing Hollywood “Once they’ve got the stars and the poster, they’re not that interested in developing the story”

Tony White – artistebooks.org. ‘Balkanising Bloomsbury’ Fiction as a way to write about art. Fragments of archive material to create a whole new story.

Annette Mees/ Tassos Stevens - A small town anywhere- a play without actors. Story experiences. Online, theatre, audience co-authoring. The audience is the cast. ‘players’ but as Annette mentioned it needs to be meaningful otherwise becomes a gimmick. Needs to be complex and messy, like life. Difference levels of communication – secret letters. Clear paths of actions. Life as a game, with objects, gossip, tribes and ambition. Flow, punctuations and commentary. Recreation of history – written live – so it will remain ‘their’ story – cultivated by the audience or ‘players’

Tim Wright – his interactive drama ‘Harrison Fraud’ xpt.com. Brilliantly funny.

Livity – Life on Wheels. “The clock makes swift moves from 1-5 am” Jody Macintyre. Inspiring, moving and hilarious.

David Hepworth - True Stories told live Tell a story live in 12 minutes, with no notes. The simple but beautiful art of storytelling;  a room of 150 plus people, very techy, creative, bloggers, and twitterers from film, tv, gaming industries all mesmerized by a man on a stage telling us an autobiographic tale of his father and his tailor Carl Stuart. Pure unadulterated pleasure.  Favorite line, ” Men nowadays dress like toddlers.”

My day was finished off by a walk across the Millenium bridge. London isn’t so bad after all, I thought to myself. The first gallery I go into a Tate Modern I spot Jackson Pollock’s ‘Summertime, Number 9A’ and smile to myself.

My ‘Story’ themed day wouldn’t be over there. On the train, on the way back to Brighton I check my emails – Joe studying literature at Brighton Uni has sent me the start of his autobiography. I read it on the train, great storytelling, and the fact it’s true make it even more delightful, it’s messy. complicated and beautiful just like life.

Exciting times. Sharing stories used to be the privilege of an elite few,  to quote Matt Locke “…but is now a casual, almost unconscious act, turning our public media spaces from strictly controlled schedules to open seas of vernacular content.”

The End.