Month: September 2018

Remember on Jeopardy when there would be a catch-all category called “Potpourri”?  That’s this entry.  Lots of things have happened and my mind can’t find some satisfying, unifying theme.  “The answer is: because I’m going to be really busy and might not have time to write this for a few days.” You can provide the question (“why bother to write an entry, then?”).  All of this is to say it’s been beautiful here in Islamabad–huge downpour yesterday and now it feels like northern New Mexico–and I’ve had two workshops at Theatre Wallay that give me all sorts of hope.  I’m going to drop the Jeopardy theme.  Here’s some stuff:

I love this place.  Theatre Wallay is a converted poultry farm that is one of the most creative theater spaces I’ve seen.  They do plays (currently rehearsing a Brecht piece they’ve translated into Urdu), host stand-up comedians, have music nights (both live and karaoke), show classic movies outdoors, create open-air shows about important issues, and–this coming Saturday–will present an all-improvised evening for local audiences.  If today’s rehearsal was any indication (and I believe it was), the show should be strange and hilarious in equal measure.

My dad sold chicken wire to poultry farms.  I like to think he’d be amused that I’ve come full circle. I do wish he were around so I could talk about Pakistan with him. He was adventurous.

Went back to Saeed Book Bank, an incredible bookstore by any standard.  Adeel drove me there (I can’t go out unaccompanied) and waited in the car while I ran around. The selection is huge.  The people I’ve met here talk very casually and knowledgeably about history and philosophy and literature. Don’t want to generalize–the literacy rate outside of Islamabad is low–but I think it says a lot about this (micro?) culture here in the capital that it can support such an exciting “book bank.” The (very successful) Barnes and Noble in my neighborhood closed down two years ago and was replaced by a vicious and unfeeling mini-Target, so I was doubly happy to be in a genuine bookstore.  Here are some of the books I bought (and almost bought):

This book seemed provocative.  And then:

There was a graphic guide to existentialism, but I chose not to buy it and I take responsibility for not doing so.  Not that it mattered.

I love Mohsin Hamid’s books (thanks Barbara Becker for introducing me to them).  Dennis and I watched the movie version of “The Reluctant Fundamentalist” a few months ago and it really didn’t do the book justice. So many of Hamid’s books are about the ambiguous benefits of modern life, about how no stance on any issue is simple or pure (and how “purity” and violence go hand-in-hand), that it was frustrating to watch a movie that couldn’t let the viewer be uncertain. The Pakistan he describes is remote to me because of the restrictions on my movement (and because of my nationality and my non-existent Urdu) (I have learned to say some words in Urdu. More on that later).  And I’ve never set foot in that mini-Target.  Moving on.

Fulbright got me three boxes of these very nice business cards.  I’m happy to have them and wish, for all sorts of reasons, that I could be here long enough to give them all away.  It’s good that the card is honest, too.  I’m doing an improv workshop at a local therapy training center tomorrow; my face is on a poster for it, followed by the words “Head of Fulbright USA.”   This ended up on Facebook.  I’m having trouble saying “yes, and…” to this experience.  I feel more than a little fraudulent.  I spoke to the staff at the training center and they said they’d change my title.  I hope I don’t get promoted to a cabinet position.  Seems like a dubious enterprise, lately.

This was on the table at breakfast:

The apple nectar was surprisingly good.  I suppose it’s too much to expect it to help me emotionally, but the promise made me laugh.  And that’s enough. This guy in the Sunday magazine cracked me up, too:

I can’t get too smug about English translations here.  Today in class I made a reference to an American actress whose last name, when translated into Urdu, means a very specific intimate act.  Good thing I’m not Head of Fulbright USA.

Two more things before I go.  Here’s a sign in the rehearsal space at Theatre Wallay.

Absolutely.  I leave here in 12 days.  Time is going too quickly.  I’m lucky to be here.

Finally, more Joni Mitchell.  She could have written this song last week. Can’t get it out of my head:

 

 

 

 

I looked it up: George Bernard Shaw is the person who said, “those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”  (And Woody Allen added, “and those who can’t teach, teach gym”) (funny).   Woody Allen may not be the best person to quote today, however.  Due to jet lag and chronic, low-level despair I was up at 3:30 a.m. watching the Kavanaugh hearings.  We men have a long, long, long way to go before we appreciate the dangerous power we wield, and we have an even longer way to go before we stop damaging those who call us to account.

And Woody Allen’s wrong about gym teachers, as well as boundary violations: I learned a lot about decency from Coach Valverde and Coach Hunt at Gage Junior High.  They did not tolerate bullying, which was remarkable in 1971.  Same with Coach Almquist at Riverside Polytechnic High School.  I was lucky.

These power dynamics are thick at the moment and it feels callow to ignore them.  They undergird everything.

But back to the quote.  I start teaching in earnest tomorrow.  I’ll be teaching the “Improvisation and Mental Health” workshops at three different places and, as always happens before I start a new class, I feel like my head is empty.  I have a syllabus. We’re going to focus on the ways improvisation defies the future-oriented dread that fuels anxiety.  We’re going to practice stepping into controlled chaos and, using curiosity and non-judgment, experience the (positive) power at our disposal when we focus on the task in front of us and not on our limiting thoughts (see the first paragraph or two of this entry). We’re going to explore how an ensemble approach to living–how listening intently to each other–is crucial to creating an atmosphere of respect and, sometimes, fun.

But how can an anxious person with partisan insomnia ask students to do the thing he can’t?  I dunno.  We’ll find out tomorrow.  Experts are the worst teachers, apparently.

Did I mention I’m in Pakistan?  In this moment?  It’s wonderful to be back.  Be here, now (I initially typed “be her now,” which would create some badly needed empathy).  Here’s some stuff from my first 48 hours, and a HUGE thank you to USEFP (United Stated Educational Foundation in Pakistan) for hosting me:

The enormous crows start to go nuts around 5:00 in the morning and, since I’ve been awake already, I’ve been walking out on the terrace and watching the sun rise.

I met with some professors from the psychology department at NUST (National University of Sciences and Technology) to schedule some workshops.  I love visiting schools. They always feel hopeful to me, even with the regimentation and the air of impatience (“will I ever finish?”). The psychology staff was gracious and welcoming (“come back!” “Shouldn’t you see how this goes before extending another invitation?”).  Every meeting here involves coffee or tea (sometimes both) and cookies and more tea.  I can’t sleep.  Hmmm.

The security around the campus is imposing.  As with the Fulbright House, there are armed guards at the entrance, and the entrance itself is nearly a mile from the campus.  Maybe that’s why this building in the next photo gave me pause:

Again, hopeful. Or cynical.  I suppose it’s a choice. Cynicism seems like an easy default position.

Here I am with one of the guards at the Fulbright House.  I did get to leave the area and go to Taxila with Sikandar from USEFP and Imran and Zainab from Theatre Wallay.  Really exciting to get out of Islamabad and see more of this country and spend time with these wonderful hosts. We wandered through a British-era museum and saw excavated art from the area. Evidence that the Greeks, the Persians, the Chinese, and the Indians had all made a home in Taxila. Some photos below:

And:

Tomorrow I begin classes at Theatre Wallay. I’m teaching them how to teach improv.  I hope I’ll disprove Shaw’s quote.

There’s a new cook at the Fulbright House, too.  He’s really good. Last night I had broccoli soup and Pakistani spaghetti.  Delicious, but there were left-overs:

This was the chorus to the song the little Australian girl sang on the flight from Dublin to Abu Dhabi (“abudhabiabudhabiabudhabi!”).  Her commitment was impressive, and I admired her persistence even when her mom, who laughed at first, asked her to stop.  Maybe her mom didn’t have faith in the fact that something that is repeated to the point of irritation will, eventually, become funny again on a whole new level.  The Abu Dhabi song did come to an end, but we’ll never know if it had the legs to emerge as a fully embodied bit, one of those jokes that never ends and only become funny because of its endlessness.  Oh, well.

Now I’m waiting for the flight to Islamabad.  A theme emerged over the course of the flight.  Here are two illustrations:

And this:

The Bob Woodward book speaks for itself.  I’ve heard more than a few people call our current president an “improviser.” He refers to himself as such.  It’s clear from all accounts that he is impulsive.  He is not, however, an improviser. I’ve said this before: improvisers serve the scene and aspire to make each other look good.  They accept the gifts of the moment.  They try to keep their egos in check because their focus is on discovering and exploring relationships.   And, yes, most of us feel fear on stage–or before we step out on stage–but if we’re decent improvisers (in all senses of the word) we don’t use fear to intimidate our scene partners and to dominate the show.  Intimidation is a fearful stance.  It kills most possibilities.  It’s violent and depressing.  Enough.

Here’s the second theme, posted again because words can’t do it justice:

This is an ad for a “Nuclear-Hardened Bunker [offering] Full Luxury Resort Living”  that was in the Etihad flight magazine. There seems to be a problem with priorities here.  I laughed, grimly, but after reading Fear with all its revelations of tweet-jousting and crass indifference to a nuclear holocaust this didn’t seem all that funny. The constant drumbeat of aggression and grievance and retaliation is exhausting. Naturally, I thought of Joni Mitchell and her prophetic song “The Three Great Stimulants.”  Some lyrics from the chorus:

Call for the three great stimulants of the exhausted ones/Artifice, Brutality, and Innocence.

This may be a stretch, but I did think about improv and these three stimulants, how each contributes to sickly and shallow scenes. One of the wonders of improvising is that we get to discover alternate realities in the moment (I’m too-often a pirate in scenes, but in real life I get sea sick quickly).  It is “artificial.” Our scenes do require artifice if we’re going to step out of our daily lives.  But improv isn’t based on lies.  I had a beginning student who was a good  improviser and always said, “I love to come to class because I get to lie.”  This rankled me because I don’t see real improv as “lying,” and I had a hard time convincing her that good improv is based on being truthful.  You have to be true to the moment, true to the emotions that emerge from the relationship, true to the game.  This isn’t just hair-splitting.  When we “pretend” on stage it comes across as false and embarrassing. Everyone knows we don’t mean what we’re saying, and to ask people to swallow lies is insulting. The audience may laugh at us, but they won’t laugh with us, and so we’re just creating more separation, more division, more exhaustion. We need to honor the emotion that is happening in that moment, just like the Australian three-year-old who committed to the Abu Dhabi song. It’s a real experience.

Improv isn’t about hoodwinking your audience or your scene partner. If you want to do that, you may as well apply for a position at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

As for “brutality” and “innocence,” well, this came to mind: leave your violence and disrespect at the door.  Improv can be a projective test on stage.  What we’re dealing with in our personal lives tends to inform what we do in our scenes (again,  not artifice).  I’m sure I’ve taken out my anger on a scene mate or two (or three) in the 29 years I’ve been improvising, and I’m ashamed of this. One of the reasons I keep the improvisational mindset at the forefront of my classes and (I hope) in my performances is that this mindset diffuses brutality.  The improv mindset is based on curiosity and deep listening, being with another person in as supportive a way as possible.  We’re responsible for what we bring to the stage, for being deeply present, and if we proclaim innocence (thank you, Joni Mitchell) as a way to bully our cast mates and get away with bad behavior, then we’re missing the point entirely.

This is ponderous.  Look!

And now I’m back in Islamabad, happy to be here and feeling excited (and fearful) about the upcoming workshops I’ll be conducting.   This headline greeted me when I stumbled downstairs for breakfast.  I hope it’s not prophetic like Joni Mitchell.  Time will tell.

“I’m going back to Pakistan” may not be a great improv declaration.  It’s best not to narrate what you’re doing.  It’s even better to have a feeling connected to your declaration.  And being specific…wow!  So, here goes:

I’m excited to be going back to Islamabad TOMORROW for two-and-a-half weeks to work with Theatre Wallay again.

Beyond that, I don’t know what I’m going to say.  Like in improv.