Oliver twists my mind's thumb- An academic study

Alright, here's I with a narrative, a real strange one. I'll be as straightforward about it as I can. School. That's the word for the day, and wait, it goes with the word shopping. Weird? Believe it or not, the NIKE sale almost did me in...with memories, flooding in like never before; and the accompanists of course, emotions.
I've been there before... not emotionally- that's not what I mean. I mean been to the-school-that-was. A few visits. After school was over for me, after passing out, and never wanting to go back in. And then of course because of the act of going to college right there after a short break.
It loomed large then- a little bit, the blue and grey stone building, as I would scoff.
I was here, me-meme-me-me!
On the other side, me-meme-me-me!
I was all grown up, you can't do a darn thing, neither as school, as a phenomenon, nor the evil I eschewed- those darned teachers.
And so it was a grown up phenomenon. I was all "grown up".
THEN an exit. From the country.Far far away. away and out, out of sight, out of mind, out of the influences of the past. Greys and blues and all those nasty associates of the murderer, SCHool.
Yes, you die.
Believe it or not, never did I for a moment think I'd look back, not for better times, because those were dull and few...a few shimmering in the murk I'll say, but few. For the better part, it was better forgotten, rather, the worse part. "Throw away the worser part..."something from Hamlet's murmurings, maybe in contextual. But you know what, I have to try. I need to unite the forces of the I that was, and the I-s that came post school. I need to tell the school I that I'm now here, I'm invincible.
Invincible.
I went back one day. Just to say Hello, just to see what the motha-fuck can those walls do?
Not much Darling, hardly that much. I was feeling nothing much, pretty juvenile for having felt those things...silly. But I had to go. I had to scold it out of my system. Get out! I'm cool. I'm in the groove of life. I GOT IT! I 've got it. Mainstream. ME.
Man, I surprise myself. As a little boy, I sure seem to have steamed up internally quite a goddamn bit...don't I seem wired up. Ironically though, I'm truly not that holed in. My psyche, its just cleaning itself up. Housekeeping.
Today was what then? Mousehunting? through my brain? Memories and a wee bit of a heartache. Not that much, just a wee bit.
But wait, the second visit, complete your second visit, finish up a story, wrap up a thought,please...
Well, that was inconsequential. I was expecting some of those motha-fuckers to fall on their knees, kneel and look up with adoring, pleading guilty eyes. "S, we were wrong, S! we wronged you. You are a hero. You managed to stay afloat...more than afloat. You are smart. You are intelligent. You are..."
"Ugh Hello, yes, I remember...which year, which batch? Which section? Oh! Look at you boys! We always knew you boys would go places! Our boys, always go places...Look at you...all grown up! Look at him! Always the naughty one! Always the clever one! Come look at him!"
Scratching my head. What of mine are you scratching?
My ego hurts.
But it also has no goal to shoot at.
The goals don't remember me.
To those goals, its all cool. I'm just another who succeeded, who they didn't personally speak of as will fail. I could quit trying to garner energy to be nemesis of the belief they handed me. They couldn't care less because they didn't know any shit anymore. Blank.

"School days were the best years of my life" Not for me!

"I was so carefree in school, people loved me, my teachers loved me!" Not ME!

" I had lovely things i could do, I did quizzes, drama, dramatics was so cool...and I was so good in class, always the first" Hmmm

"Opportunities!" Yawn

Voice in S's head: OK tell me, what did you feel today? what did you see?
S (that's I): Trying to change the topic eh? WELL, I know, I'm smart! My mom did that to me when I was a kid, changing topics so I wouldnt be in a flummoxed-state of being, all knotted up. But it was counter-productive. VODH: Just trying to help!
Im not that sic now, used to be, have dealt with it...don't worry.

Today. a school that doesn't exist. At least mine doesn't anymore. If it does anywhere, it does only in a few thousands of us who lasted to see a sight and experience a dozen million things in those corridors and hallways. Only in our mind.
Today, as I stood at the school-that-is, I could see some similarities. The architect had tried to preserve the essence of the building by re-modelling the main centre, but he had effectively modernised (now, he says effectively!) the wings. An ex-pass out he was, I'm told. The building reeked of tales to us old-timers. Hints. Of what was, though it wasnt anymore. Of times that were, but hidden in a newer context. Hints.
Suddenly there was a hint of freshness I couldnt see before. I stood under those trees that had always been there. They seemed to know me. I shut my eyes, and flash, Flash, fLash, flAsh, flaSh, flasH, FLASH! scenes of the dungeon classes that some used to be, scenes of the cycle stand and the parking lot, scenes of the crazy library windows overlooking the isolated grove...scenes of the refectory, scenes of the ominous chemistry lab and the adjoining classrooms, scenes of the boys toilet where the wall was short and a glimpse of the road outside had reminded me that I wasn't "in" during the Jewish holocaust...Scenes.
Out of the blue, the blues broke.Something started and was very obvious. BLAST, BLAST, BLAST, all the scenes blowing up... Catharsis.
I opened my eyes. There was freshness and life...there was newness. Now, and forever, those memories in the hallways of my mind will be just those. Not imprinted for real on earth. They were now just an idea. As powerful as I wanted them to be, or not. Choice.
And then it was time. The doors opened. We had to rush in and pick up shoes. And sweatshirts. Ts. Guess where? The retained-as-it-was, but refurbished auditorium. Concert Hall we called it. And the first floored exam hall.
As I walked up those stairs, images again of walking up in uniform, the year 1894. The context, board exams. The emotion, Death. As I did today, the context, well...I created the same context as the previous assent, only the mood now remained, cheerful and carefree. I was out of its reach...I believe I can fly?
?
Was not all of that fairly straightforward?

jazzy jazzy bang bang

Novelty seems to be the rule of the game. Im talking performers and musicians. In the current western context. Art and music appreciation in the Europes and Americas and related white world is markedly different from Asian sensibilities, or so we thought. However, things have come full circle. Michael Schiefel seemed one such...a musician and performer rolled into one, with a technological innovation of his own- a music box and a parrot rolled into one. all those selling points, and a couple of good songs made for an evening at the Goethe, Bangalore.

where were we? Oh yes, novelty. To be honest, I don't think i went anywhere else with my verbosity; all of it was about using novelty to sell. As I write this out, I can almost sense a dozen personal reactions and preempt yours- the reader's, to words like musician, and sell. Connotations is where the key is to that phenomenon but I urge you to chuck that. Im using the term sell in a very different sense, common sense.

Artists do sell, musicians sell, and oh my God, they sell, well, their creations! If you are reacting to that, my bet is that it is the Asian modesty inculcated in you- one that says that art and spiritual teachings are sacred, dont you dare sell if you are worth your salt. And thats precisely my point, how would you know what your salt is worth?

Agreed that was a tangent, but will probably come handy to support my talk on novelty. What I'm trying to get at is a connection between Indian art and Indian artists and western art and the artist... and, most importantly, the audiences (I'll be kind and not say consumers or customers) in both contexts. Many a realisation has been realised by yours truly in areas of what people want from their music and art, and many an annoyed reaction expressed to the ways of packaging the offerings. Musicians and filmmakers and the lot, the pop lot, have always dolled out "newness" in avtars of, " I got a pakistani artist to sing", or "Watch this actor sing for the first time" or " never before have AC and DC come together!" moments of advertisement...even bizzaire ones being," Sanjey Rutt sings in a female voice, and then some cow too". Now, what last evening was all about, was something like that. A man who was a one-man-show vocalist and musical instruments all rolled into one. pretty remarkable what say? So you want to see a man go at it, do his nautankie and then make your dil kush. Just one problem. Here was Mr White skinned German on a German stage with a page 3 crowd nodding in excitement at the mental image of a lovely elitist chamber experience. Cynical, heavy cynical!

Not a bad thing though, just trying to get aware, to sort out. What the attitudes are about performers within our psyche and those to be matched when one comes in from a culture beyond our approval for reasons beyond my comprehension.

With these standposts in my mind I sat through Michael Schiefel's performance (as I must call it, in a non-connotative but objectively observant tone) and I must say, he passed the test. There was the element I think is the redemptive factor. Moments of pure authenticity to the creation... and that was enough.