Cilsant's dark night of the soul

Thoughts About Theater and Society

I realized, just after titling this post, that the title suggests a topic of huge scope, which I’m not actually going to write about at this moment.

What I wanted to share is a post that I read this morning on a blog I follow. I enjoy reading this blog because the writer is insightful, academic without being sterile, and addresses things from perspectives I tend to subscribe to myself.

The few of you who currently follow my own blog are, I know, to be people who would appreciate this topic in particular, and if you have the inclination, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the post.

The blog post can be read here: http://quiteirregular.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/theatre-and-society-or-alan-ayckbourn-likes-a-pint/

I’ve already posted a comment, and I’d imagine if you have any desire to read it, you can likely see it below the post.

When I don’t have a five-year-old begging me to go out and play in the snow, I may come back and discuss some of my thoughts on theater culture here in America.

I look forward to hearing any responses you have!

WD Question: What is Writing?

Writer’s Digest posted a Q for readers and writers to answer; the best will win a prize.

Here’s the link to the Q and contest: http://www.writersdigest.com/online-editor/the-q-define-what-writing-means-to-you-plus-win-a-free-wd-subscription

Here’s my answer.

Writing, when dug down to its root, is synergetic lyrical expression. It fulfills a driving desire for understanding; Eli Wiesel said, “I write to understand as much as to be understood.” Wiesel’s statement uncovers a truth about writing that is naked and pure within us all, I think. The desire to express who we are, with the intent to be understood by others, is innate, and its product is synergetic – once we have shaped our words into form, the receipt of them is where our writing experiences its real genesis. The ones who hear, see, feel our words reshape them into myriad meanings – some of which we had not even imagined ourselves when we wrote them.

Writing is the canvas upon which I paint myself, and the world I see. And upon studying my own canvas, within the collective of critics and appraisers studying it beside me, I am able to hear from them perspectives on my brushstrokes, my choice of color, my very choice of medium, that I had not even considered when my ideas were first conceptualized. This is the whole of writing that seeks to be understood, as much as to understand; when applied artfully, I believe writing can liberate us from ignorance, both of ourselves, and of humanity. It is, finally and truthfully, the perfect lighting for awareness.

Writing Prompt 01/18/2012

While out at a bar, your old high school sweetheart approaches you and gives you an unexpected kiss right on the lips. This causes you to have one intense reaction that will lead to a very memorable night—but not for good reasons.

In retrospect, it wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Regret? Not at all.

I thought I’d buried my resentment deep enough that it would never zombie itself into the forefront of my consciousness again. And here you come with a shovel to unearth it all, like some emotional archaeologist intent on finding things better left buried; things that don’t belong to you.

Well, it belongs to you now, doesn’t it?

I can honestly say that when I pulled back from your kiss, it wasn’t so much from surprise as revulsion. I remember your breath. How disgusting is that? The memories flooded back so tangibly – the smell of alcohol, the unstoppable inertia of your Dodge rumbling down route 2, the taste of metal in my mouth every time I wanted to scream, and couldn’t.

And I did it anyway.

No, it wasn’t your psychedelic charm, or your big hands, or your intense, ironic blue eyes. Those things may be true for other girls, but I knew you when. It was hate, dear memory. Hate.

You know that now, though, don’t you? I think we can all safely agree that it’s no fun being naked in the middle of a public park in front of the police. You didn’t see my best girlfriend follow us, did you? You were too drunk (nice to see some things never change) to notice the person I was having a beer with – too drunk to even consider the smirk I couldn’t hide, and wonder what it might mean.

I always hated your sexual fantasies. You know that, yet somehow deluded yourself into thinking that just this one time I might be interested in one of them? Honey, I was -never- interested in rutting like deer in the bushes – private or public. Again – you know that now, though, don’t you?

I wish I could conjure up just a little sympathy for you, but as ashamed as I am to admit my lack of conscience, I’m still laughing my tail off. You, standing naked as birth, in the shine of that cop’s flashlight. How many watts do you think that was? A lot, I’m guessing, by the way your pasty skin lit up. You, bent over, scraping the ground blindly for the clothes my girlfriend snatched and absconded with. You, hollering impotently for me to help, like you seriously didn’t understand. You honestly thought there was a pressing need for me to get my phone out of the car in the middle of public sex? Even I realize what a weak distraction that was.

If I ever stop laughing, maybe I’ll explain the whys and wherefores to the world.

For now, they’ll just have to make do with an image of sweet, patient revenge.

Bartender? Another round, please.

The Cost of Knowledge

I made a big decision today.

 
I decided I would like to make knowledge accessible to my children.

 
I did this when I decided to spend the mind-blowing $108.00 on a subscription to the magazine History Today. I think I do not have to explain why this is such a big decision.

 
My problem, at its root, is not the cost; I find the publication incredibly helpful, not only in research, but just because I enjoy reading it. I will gladly pay $108.00 for a subscription to something that enhances my research, and deepens my pool of knowledge.

 
What I take issue with is the fact that it will cost me $108.00 to gain knowledge and perspective academically, and yet I can purchase a two year subscription to Cosmopolitan for just “$1 per Issue!”, or so their website advertises. For a mere $28.00 I can learn exactly what makes him tick/squirm/squeal, and keep up on the very latest fashion trends out of Milan, for a whole two years. For less than thirty dollars, I can immerse myself in feeling like a woman every – single – day. And by “feel like a woman” I mean to say that I can compare myself to every woman in that magazine and come up feeling worthless, look at all the items I can’t afford and wind up feeling like a financial failure, and peruse through all the articles and come out the other side no more knowledgeable about how to actually have healthy relationships than I was prior to reading.

 
Why the disparity? And what does this say to our children?

 
Well, I haven’t officially researched it, and I don’t have any truly sound academic arguments as of yet – anthropologically, historically or otherwise – but I’m still pretty confident in my answer: because our priorities are seriously effed up. And yes, that’s my official, academic answer.

 
With the cost of academic texts so high, and the cost of magazines like Cosmo so low, is it any wonder our children are confused? We show them, in myriad ways, what they should be prioritizing high on their list. We feed them a constant barrage of toys and tinkers in commercials, plug the Christmas tree with enough gifts to make a Sudanese child die of shock, and then proceed to leave our choice of reading materials out on the coffee table.

 
Some may say that I’m being overly harsh on those publications I’ve mentioned, and may point out, embarrassingly, that my mouth is unzipped and my bias is showing. Speaking directly to that, I would agree that these publications do have value. As with most anything, I believe its how we use the tool that defines the tool. Viewing anything – including entertainment or fashion publications – with a critical eye and yearning to understand can only enhance us as thinking creatures. For example, viewing Vogue from an academic, anthropological standpoint can provide incredible perspective on our treatment of gender in the West; author Beth Harbison produced an illuminating work, Hope in a Jar, which covers the history of women’s beauty products – and it’s a fascinating work. The magazines and editorials themselves are not the problem; how our children – and how we ourselves – receive and process the information, and what we use those texts for, are the issues.

 
We parents in this country, in good portion it would appear, are unconcerned whether our children know who Shakespeare is, let alone whether they can name even one of his works. Educating our children on why Salvador Dali was so revolutionary is low on the ‘to do’ list, and introducing them to History (yes, you all know this is what appalls me the most) in any form is about as high on parents’ list of priorities as ‘change the oil in the car.’ And even that at least gets done when it can’t be put off any longer. And I have been just as guilty as anyone else.

 
I see this as one of those root problems in society for which there is no quick-acting elixir. In our current culture, pop culture is valued higher than education and critical thinking, for the most part. I must acknowledge that this does not apply to everyone; I have met parents who take a very proactive stance on their children’s education. Yet, the majority are more focused on tangible, applied knowledge, than they are conceptual or theoretical knowledge. I do not blame the parents, truthfully; indeed, blame itself seems fairly inconsequential. What we need instead of blame, instead of pointing fingers and judging, is to understand the problem so that we can address it.

 
“The problem” is problematically condensed, but I cannot speak to “the problem” in less than two thousand words. What I’ve brought up here is just a tiny speck of the overall “problem”. I am neither educated enough, or arrogant enough, to tackle the job of actually outlining what “the problem” is. Instead, I write about this today to ask myself – and any one of you reading – what signals am I sending to my children about what is important? How likely is it that my child will fall in love with education, if I do not make it fun, relevant, and most importantly, accessible to them?

 
It cost me $108.00 to have History Today delivered to me in my medium of choice. I will gladly pay the $15.00 each for one year subscriptions to National Geographic, and National Geographic Kids. I will keep every textbook I have purchased for school, and leave them in the bookcase that is most accessible to my kids. I will get on the computer with my five-year-old and show her the great masterpieces of the Renaissance, as well as the works of great contemporary artists. I will read her poetry – both of the goose sort, and also the Blake, Whitman, and Shakespeare sort. I will value her literacy above all kindergarten academic pursuits, and my husband will teach her that math and science are not to be feared, but embraced and questioned.

 
Mostly, I will value these things myself, and eschew the urge to pick up that newest issue of Vogue at the grocery store.

 
And, if I’m very lucky, and my and my husband’s love of knowledge and critical thinking take root within our children and grow, one of my daughters will shake their head firmly at me while I am in that grocery line, take the fashion magazine out of my hand, and parrot to me just as I have a thousand times about candy bars, “No, Mama – you don’t need that. You can read History Today when we get home, if you continue to choose good behavior.”

 
I will conclude by acknowledging that Our Culture Sucks: Why Our Children Are Getting Dumber is not a sound academic thesis. It is, however (I think) a perfectly sound question for us to be asking ourselves, so that we, as parents and educators, can provide to the newest generations easy access to knowledge, and more difficult access to consumerism and trend.

A Cat, and 25 Beautiful Words

I try to do writing exercises when I can’t get anything productive done (as today, trying to work on a paper) – today’s exercise was to take 25 of the most beautiful words in the English language, and write them into something about my cat. Here’s what happened:

The lithe cat twists her serpentine

body, stretching without a scintilla

of doubt she is the most important

person in the room.

Claws in the carpet, hind in the air, she

offers a desultory yawn, arches her back

deeply, begins to stalk her demesne, with an

evocative glance in the direction of the

two dogs in the room: I dare you.

Tail puffs up, twitches an S in the air, and

she struts past the whining pups, towards the

sunny spot – falls over, unmoved by their forbearance,

rollstwists until she is belly-up, paws folded neatly

atop herself, and an insouciant smile settles

behind her whiskers.

Dust dances in the downward staircase of sunlight,

rays a panacea for all in the room, feline and

canine alike; eyes and heads droop, panting becomes a

susurrus, rhythmic chant to the gods of languor.

Stillness.

The floor shakes, thunder rumbles, and both furry-dog

heads lift as one, ears pricked, muzzles turning

towards an ebullient five-year-old-girl

tearing her way into the room,

dressed in dulcet squeals and giggles.

The leisurely dust scatters, and cat is up in a blink,

paws eating floor-space, ears flat, the couch her

direction. Siamese hair flies

– the room is alive –

cat runs, dogs give chase (kids in a schoolyard

chanting fight! fight!) and bringing up the

tail end is an ingénue of golden curls and inertia.

Perching on the rise of furniture, cat glares;

her nose wrinkles a hiss, razors revealed to the general

assemblage. Below, tails wag frantically, and the child

gamboling about slows to a surreptitious crawl on

cushions; girl turns away, a pretense of peace within the

imbroglio twixt species.

Siberian rumps hit the floor, and the dogs shift their

unified gaze from cat to girl – girl to cat.

The smiling muzzles and lolling tongues suggest

disappointment, at best.

Glaring blue ice, cat lifts one delicate paw,

and a rough tongue grabs it before the softness

is brought over her head, back to mouth,

over her head again, the ritual designed for

cleansing people-and-dog cooties.

The girl takes advantage of propinquity;

she twists her upper body, hands reaching, plucking

cat – eyes start open – from the back of the couch.

Feline is settled into the folds of princess gown,

and small hands stroke her down into a

helpless crouch.

It’s a pyrrhic victory for both girl and cat, as scratches

on slim arms and fur lost in the air reveal. “Mama,

she scratched me!” whines across the living room, and

I meet the mortified gaze of cat, beleaguered by

over-enthusiastic affection.

I referee cat from her nemesis’ grasp, pull her warm body

against me; she nestles her tiny cold nose into my neck.

Rubbing my cheek against fur, I inhale the felineness

of her, walk to the six-foot scratching post, and with

humble and tender ministrations, deposit her

out of reach.

Sitting tall, cat surveys her domain, once again regal,

once again the final authority. She glances disdainfully

downward at her domesticated subjects, re-begins her

ritual of cleansing –

paw, tongue, face –

paw, tongue, face –

paw, tongue, face –

- and we ailurophiles adore from below, unable to resist this

cynosure of ineffable grace and poise.

Pink Leviathan

An open wide sky,

pink balloons

swallowed until tiny dots,

until nothing

replaces the hopes released by tiny,

innocent hands.

Slate gray rumbles, kids scurry for tents,

grown-ups bend and herd, and the sky breaks

open, devouring the castles

they’d built in the air.

Is this where dreams go when they die,

into the cool, blank stares of children with naked heads?

They didn’t really believe it’d change anything,

anyway. It’s the grown-ups,

eyeing the sky,

all wondering,

feeling,

standing as one who

mourns the hundreds of balloons.

The leviathan was never going anywhere, but the

breath pushed into those latex airships was

the very spirit of last-chance, of

please-god-please.

And we watch them, uneasy,

unable to meet their eyes,

ashamed of the disease,

ashamed of our powerlessness.

The kids are eating.

Why not?

The rains will pass, skies will clear,

the world will go on despite

their fear –

and strength.

And no amount of balloons will

satiate God enough to

change His mind.

So they eat, they swap stories.

The grown-ups collect money,

pretend hope, and whisper

as if their kids don’t know

they’re dying.

We stand, my daughter and I, hand

in hand, and she asks, concerned, “Mama, how

come they don’t have hair?”

I think to myself, it’s because chemo is poison, but

my answer to her is, “because they are brave.”

She, bundle of health, picture of poise,

stuffs the cash into the round tin marked with

a picture of a bare-headed boy, and she is

handed a pink balloon.

“Let it go,” the mother says.

My child stares at the balloon, brow

crunched up.

I think to myself, it’s easier said

than done.

Essteea…why?

If you had asked me to stay

would I have touched your mouth,

hand across jaw, thumb across lips,

taken the word between my fingers, gently

exploring its many-textured meaning?

Would it have felt soft – hunger?

Would it have felt hot – yearning?

Would it have felt its way up my arms,

into my mind? Or threaded about my waist,

whispers snaking their way down to my…?

Would it have wrapped itself around

my legs, feet, lifting me skyward, light as

light, lifting me virginal, to a place untouchable

to all but God?

Would it feel like electricity on my spine

and breath on my throat, or

like hands on my face, eyes and eyes

together, our words like ivy, meaning:

minds, hearts, hands –

like love?

I take the word into my mouth;

I close my teeth around the contours of the s,

tongue down the edges of the t

breathe slowly the a

and ask:

why?

Border Line

The Colorado Rockies tear the sky in two -

above: an orange and pink palette of grace -

below: darkness descending.

When we came to this place, was

the Peak majestic?

(Yes. A beloved purple in the quiet dawn.)

Why does the immensity of its heights now

remind me of gravity, and why does the sun, disappearing

over its western face,

make me long to grab one of those dying rays,

ride the chariot West

where surely there

is paradise?

The first dawn, was

the Peak glorious?

(Yes. It glittered, a golden basilisk in the Eastern sun.)

Why does the rise of its bulk now

suffocate me, render me breathless, frantic

to surmount the edges of this sarcophagus

and climb into the sky’s embrace

where I can breathe again?

The day abandons us.

We are forgotten,

left with the enormity

stretching North-South, a massive

slumbering beast guarding the gates

to the other side, and the shining white

archangel against Heaven

stands sentinel,

disavowing our right to chase

the sun into rest.

(Everyone sings its praises.)

Hallelujah.

(Everyone sings its praises.)

Willow Weeping

your child knows no better,

felling the tree, hounding

the breathless hare,

hunger – greed indivisible.

Anymore it’s like that –

your face explored for what

can be taken, not what (when

asked for) you would freely give.

It makes a difference. Any mother

knows this:

your breast bottomless source

heart infinite well

wanting to know us (canyon

knows the swollen river)

wanting to know us, (your

child’s cry)

wanting to teach us so we

can know you (lovemotherlove,

indivisible language), so we

can stretch ourselves from breast

to sky, rooted eternal and forever

in your immovable gift,

singing songs of your soft,

immeasurable strength.

Chief Dan George – All is Finished

When I was living in Spokane, I became interested in the Salish tribe of Washington. At the Universities there, and specifically at Spokane Falls Community College, there are a few Native speakers of the Salish language left who are desperately attempting to maintain their language. An anthropology professor of mine once said that language is the highest expression of culture, and if you lose your language, you lose your stories; if you lose your stories, you lose the heart of your history, and of your people. When I read this poem by Chief Dan George of the Salish tribe, my heart ached, in the same way it did the day I met the woman who was to teach me Salish as my foreign language at the college. It hurts, when you see before you a contrast of hope against cynicism, of heart against a loss of faith.

I WANTED TO GIVE SOMETHING OF MY PAST

TO MY GRANDSON.

I TOLD HIM THAT I WOULD SING

THE SACRED WOLF SONG OVER HIM.

IN MY SONG, I APPLEALED TO THE WOLF

TO COME AND PRESIDE OVER US,

WHILE I WOULD PERFORM THE WOLF CEREMONY.

SO THAT THE BONDAGE BETWEEN MY GRANDSON

AND THE WOLF WOULD BE LIFE LONG.

I SANG.

IN MY VOICE WAS THE HOPE

THAT CLINGS TO EVERY HEARTBEAT.

I SANG.

IN MY WORDS WERE THE POWERS

I INHERITED FROM MY FOREFATHERS.

I SANG.

IN MY CUPPED HANDS LAY A SPRUCE SEED..

THE LINK TO CREATION.

I SANG.

IN MY EYES, SPARKLED LOVE.

AND THE SONG FLOATED

ON THE SUN’S RAYS FROM TREE TO TREE.

WHEN I HAD ENDED,

IT WAS AS IF THE WHOLE WORLD

LISTENED WITH US

TO HEAR THE WOLF’S REPLY.

WE WAITED A LONG TIME

BUT NONE CAME.

AGAIN I SANG,

HUMBLY

BUT AS INVITINGLY AS I COULD,

UNTIL MY THROAT ACHED

AND MY VOICE GAVE OUT.

ALL OF A SUDDEN

I REALIZED WHY NO WOLVES HAD HEARD

MY SACRED SONG.

THERE WERE NONE LEFT!

MY HEART FILLED WITH TEARS.

I COULD NO LONGER

GIVE MY GRANDSON

FAITH IN THE PAST, OUR PAST.

I…WEPT IN SILENCE.

ALL IS FINISHED!

** Interestingly, another version of the poem I found had (what I felt) was a very, very important piece that was left out of the above. Personally, I think the addition of his interaction with his Grandson speaks volumes in only the few lines there. I’m going to have to try to find a few books with the work in them, so that I can compare, and maybe find out why the discrepancy. In the other version, the last stanza reads:

MY HEART FILLED WITH TEARS

I COULD NO LONGER

GIVE MY GRANDSON

FAITH IN THE PAST, OUR PAST.

AT LAST I COULD WHISPER TO HIM: “IT IS FINISHED!”

“CAN I GO HOME NOW?” HE ASKED,

CHECKING HIS WATCH TO SEE

IF HE WOULD STILL BE IN TIME TO CATCH

HIS FAVORITE PROGRAM ON TV.

I WATCHED HIM DISAPPEAR AND

WEPT IN SILENCE.

ALL IS FINISHED!