violence and romance in play

Unrelated note: Nihilism can be a joyful relief from reality.
-response to NYTimes review of Will Eno's latest play.

I've been fascinated by my observation that violence is an accepted aspect of childhood play but romance is a strong taboo. Children are drawn to play at both, probably out of a combination of reenacting behaviors they encounter and relatively unmediated emotional expression.
For some time I've thought that this disparity derived from the relative dangers--while violence in its most extreme forms can lead to permanent damage and death, the most extreme expressions of romance lead to more present lasting effects. Death and scars become norms but babies reassert themselves moment to moment. Of course the psychological scars of violence reassert themselves as well, but they're less prominent.

In my work with my students I've cut out almost all romance. It gets referred to but the highest level of involvement will be an arm over a shoulder or linked arms or hands. The violence remains prominent and much of it happens offstage, but I've been shaken by the real potential for injury in even the most carefully staged combat sequences. Clearly violence is far more dangerous than romance, yet there's no question of increasing the degree of romance in the work. Therefore I think the taboos may have more to do with emotional vulnerability. In play children experience much less emotional vulnerability in peer-associated violence (particularly in the context of play rather than effective violence) than peer-associated romance. Why this seems to be the case I'm not sure. I suspect that the line between play and reality is pretty thin for children (which is why they are both the most demanding and most fulfilling audiences) and that this plays a role in the discomfort. Certainly there is a developmental aversion to romance and proclivity for acting on emotions--even love, though no romance. I suspect there are significant societal controls on expressions of love as adults struggle to differentiate between love and romance and that these controls also factor in the taboo.

I imagine others must be noticing these things and asking these questions as well. In the meantime think I'll cut back on the stage combat till I hear the results of their research.

Not My Car part 2

Things come up in my weekly meeting with the boss. The latest was the observation that for all the family-focus in this town almost all of the theatre that's appropriate for kids under 13 (in my book--which is under 21 in Sunhole years, and even then you're going to hell) is performed by kids. A ten year old whom I know wanted recommendations for a play acted by adults--not a musical (there's plenty of squeaky-clean musicals on the boards) and all I could find was The 39 Steps at my theatre's crosstown rival. There are at least two other theatres that create shows for kids by kids, but no high-quality productions for kids and families. The notion that children's theatre doesn't have to be high-quality theatre enrages me a bit and it's a hypocrisy that's not specific to Sunhole. It almost makes me want to kick around here awhile to put together something to change that story. Of course kicking around Sunhole for the long-term is not an option. Maybe the modified truck and the children's theatre are a match. The road is out there and I'm getting increasingly mobile...

arrogance and insecurity

I was recently reminded that when I moved to Sunhole I demurred at the potential for dating here for several reasons, perhaps chiefly my fear of being some girl's "ticket out". I was reminded of this recently and take some pride in having achieved enough perspective to see the astounding arrogance of the thought. I think I recognized the arrogance at the time--I felt a bit sheepish saying it--but I felt the sentiment nonetheless.

--

I've been thinking about the importance of teaching students how to deal with failure. A lot of the problems I see, especially in disempowered communities have to do with the ways that people deal with prolonged disappointment.

We all grow up with images suggesting what our future may look like and while a white boy has a variety of images and, depending on his class, these may even be over-inflated, a black male's images are largely negative and extraordinarily daunting in comparison with the images that dominate the media landscape (which are those of the wealthy and privileged few who can afford to make such image-creation economically viable).

You know this, but most of the responses to this situation that I see focus on inflating the sense of possibility in the disenfranchised. This could be a great strategy in a socialized system but in a tenaciously capitalist system most people are not going to be number one most of the time and popular images will always portray number one because that's what everyone wants to be, even if we're told (by our life circumstances or media images) that we can't ever be number one.

It strikes me that a more effective strategy would be to teach methods for dealing with disappointment, rather than inflating egos. This is as true for the over-privileged white kids I teach, whose parents let them quit when they're disappointed with the size of their roles (a thankfully rare, but sadly real situation) as it is for underprivileged children and...you know...me. This is not to suggest that we should teach people to be satisfied with not being number one, but rather we need to help people to find ways not to discount themselves before making an attempt. There's a fine balance there in that we also need to teach people risk assessment, not to throw themselves off the cliff. The trick is in determining what's a cliff and what's just the blinding light of possibility.

I hadn't fully appreciated how personal this problem is until my sister pointed out that she doesn't think about her chances for success, only whether or not she wants to do something. With that attitude she's been quite successful--not consistently, but sufficiently and certainly more often than not. At the moment I can't conceive of what that life must be like, but knowing it exists, and exists for someone with whom I identify makes it very real.

This is part of why I haven't become an actor.
Big project. Good to be able to articulate it, especially in the context of hearing my line about being some girl's ticket out of town with new ears.

Arrogance and insecurity. It's a hit to the self-esteem to say it but they're two sides of a coin I've been holding tightly for a long time.

my theatre, not my car

There are many uncertainties in my life right now and many visions. For quite a few years one of these visions has involved taking theatre to people. I want to drive into cul-de-sacs, unfold a theatre out of the vehicle and do a show, travel around the country performing wherever there are people. I've thought a lot about what this vehicle would look like. It could be animal-drawn--anywhere there's grass there's feed and the animals themselves would draw a crowd. It could be an antique--also a good way to draw attention. It could be a trailer that can be set up and left in place for awhile.

Theatre is temporal. I'm leery of permanence in theatre. I want to perform on the roadsides with sets made of ice and denouements determined by the early edition of the next day's paper.

There was construction going on at work today and I was quite taken with the extendable bed on the contractor's pickup. It got me thinking, why not just use a pickup, if a ladder rack were strong enough it could support a stage and actors. So now I've found such a ladder rack. It would put the stage a bit higher off the ground than I'd like but it could easily be set up to perform in seconds or carry material to open out more grandly with more stage space and more possibilities for performance. Suddenly I find myself looking at pickup trucks. This is far outside my identity.
And it's a bit down the pike as well, but it's a start.
The world is full of possibility.
I'd better get on the MFA apps. while the feeling lasts.

Social Justice Protest Song

This may or may not be finished, but it's a resting place at any rate.

All The Fighters Have Left

If I live to die an old man
Will I have lived my life in vain?
Could I have lived for something more than
Just to see the sun again?

If you fight hard enough to help the powerless
Those who have power will see you dead
If you are meek, minding only your own business
You will inherit all the fighters have left

Come join in the struggle
When all of the others
Agree to peace
And sharing the best

A new world is forming
You’ll wake up one morn and
Discover all
The fighters have left

I don’t trust permanence or institutions for
Self-preservation is their only aim
Money and politics stay out of governance,
medicine, art, education and faith.

If you fight hard enough to help the powerless
Those who have power will see you dead
If you are meek, minding only your own business
You will inherit all the fighters have left

Go to the cul-de-sacs
Go to the mountain shacks
Go to the places
That Fear calls home

Dare to stay single
Find faith that everything will be
All right when you find
You’re fighting alone

If I fail fatherhood can I still be a man
Making no children to roam on the earth?
If I never marry will I always carry
The stigma of never learning to care?

If my love is strong enough to help the powerless
Will I have anything left for myself?
If I am meek, minding only my own business
Can I do good for anyone else?

Dr. Update

I think I got dumped by my doctor. A message on the answering machine said I should call the Dr.'s office. I never did get ahold of anyone who claimed to be the person with whom I should be speaking, but they all seemed to know that I needed to pick up some files.
Some files?
I got there this A.M. and there was my entire medical record. Why am I receiving this? No one knows. I think maybe the Dr. decided that, since I might be splitting town in a year there was no point in his holding on to my records any longer.

I put the file into my satchel and continued on toward work. I began to feel as though I'd had a spat with my girlfriend one morning then came home to find my furniture and dirty laundry on the sidewalk.
The file feels like that egg I carried in 7th grade to learn the responsibilities of child-rearing and to scare us into safe or no sex. There's this delicate and important thing living in my much-abused bag, the shoe leather of my intellectual existence in which everything else is transported.

I took a few moments at the office to look through the file. There were few surprises, some astoundingly bad handwriting, the whole lengthy story told in reverse. A few scattered notes of tests and updates with scribbles about career developments and a dearth of health insurance in the margin, then a sudden crisis starting softly, pleased at the recovery progress leading back to the surgeries themselves, like watching a feather floating up off the floor. Then the surgeries with a eerie lack of crisis, though the notes to captures some of the malaise and depression between bouts with the scalpel. Then a long, drawn out, growing hope out of the despair and certainty--the word inexorable was applied to my condition at one point. Then scattered notes on inoculations and vaccinations.

When the uber-diagnosis's term first appeared (in standard chronology) there were several articles on the condition collected by a curious doctor unschooled in its ins and outs. One examined a suggested connection between the diagnosis and schizophrenia. The article described a study that found no link between them but suggestion has its power and my moments of troubled mind seem all the more sinister.
The troubled mind denies all hope. With a troubled mind where can there be love or professional achievement?
The study found no connection, and yet...

The language of the medical file is strange: "patient denies...", which suggests to me that I'm hiding something.

--

My closest chum has reexamined his career choices. He and his wife are in different branches the same obscure field, both finishing up their dissertations while attending to a five month old. Jobs are few and the politics around them is rife, and he basically thinks his branch is awash in bullshit and doesn't want to play the game. So he's done his research, identified what he wants and needs in a job and has decided to become an actuary.
I can't fault him.

I know what I want/need to do, but I don't see how to get there from here. It requires either a PhD. or MFA. I don't want to do the politics of the PhD. and I can't see how I can acquire the prerequisite of three years' professional experience to get accepted into an MFA program.
I feel like I'm in the only job for which I'm qualified. Is this it? Is this the top of my career? Is there nowhere else to go?

Pieces are coming into place that may allow me to finally stage something. The production values are miniscule. I could do the thing on my own but would prefer to do it with others. Others may be on hand.

We shall see what comes of this.

Another Lyric

My head is much more in protest-song land right now, but revisiting something sweeter is a pleasant respite.
This came pouring out of the uke at the start of the summer.
I still like it.

Come To Me Tonight

There’s a cream of wheat moon breaking the horizon
Porch-light melting into sweet cream butter
All the whole wide world is hoping
you’ll come to me tonight

There’s a cross-town bus blowing on the meadow
Reminding us of all we left behind
You can taste its tang against the cool
If only you will come to me tonight

Fireflies are dancing in my eyes
Drunk with dreaming I’ll procrastinate the sunrise
Meadowlark is singing in the dark
I'm afraid that rooster’s got my number

Yes, I’ve tried my best to fathom your address
Touched each doorbell and dialed every phone
Come to me or I will be
Alone--forever yours--all my life
So please
Come to me tonight