writing – Page 5 – Another Adventure

Working with Conviction

Can art change the world? Or which came first, the art or the world? Does art reflect the conditions of the world, or does the world reflect the conditions of art?

I used to believe so vehemently in the latter. I lived for the stage. Who I was was defined by the spaces in which I moved, like a chameleon, between the black proscenium floors and the red velvet audience seats—I was neither actor nor audience member, neither performer nor–what is the word or a non-performer? Laity? That seems horribly blaspheming, though I suppose it would not be far from the truth. When we worship ourselves, we become broken gods.

I feel a painful polarity in me when I act on stage. The irony, I suppose, is that in those fleeting moments of live energy, I feel so alive, so joyous, as if I’m tapping into the mind of another human being and living in her shoes. But when I leave the stage and cease being a pretend character and become just me again, sometimes I don’t want to give up the glamour of being able to get away with things on stage that I otherwise would be appalled by—my behavior, others’ behavior—in “real” life. In those brief moments when I am transforming from my character back in to myself I cling longingly to the self-love of feeling everyone’s eyes transfixed on my being. I did not do anything to deserve it. Is that even praise worthy? Does praise even equal worthiness?

I don’t always think so. The longer I live in those transitional spaces between a character and myself, the less I feel like myself and more like one amorphous being who is poked and prodded by the challenges and praises of her peers. This is not a real being and slowly these clouds seep into my skin and challenge my autonomy and my humility, which doesn’t really exist in the first place, unfortunately. I live less like a child in wonder of the world and more like a bump on a log, or as CS Lewis once put it, no longer a grumbler but simply a grumble.

I cannot lose myself again. The funny thing is that I struggled with this same sinking self identity in Israel, as I felt myself getting swept away by the sand and the rush of such a complex and confusing country. I felt like I must change myself in order to fit in in order to be happy. And here I am again, changing before my very eyes.

Change can often be a good thing. But when I begin to question the words that come out of my mouth and the people I project myself towards, I wonder if I am being true to myself or if I am clinging to this invisible space between acting and life. I always wonder. I must be true.

My goal for myself is no longer to become anything, or anyone, or change myself or force myself into being something different. I suppose my goal is just to live every day with conviction. That’s hard when you’re trying to please someone all the time. It just won’t work. Sometimes you have to give.

Theatre has always been for me a form of escapism and I know many actors and audience members alike who flock to shows to escape reality. This was what primarily appealed to me about acting, that I could escape, first from a rough childhood, and then in general, from anything that bothered me. I could leave my real self at the door and pretend that life was anything I wanted it to be…and it was.

When I came back from Israel, I realized I no longer want to escape from the world. I want to embrace it and help shape it. But what was so wonderful about being in a play again is that for a little while I found such an enjoyable way to pass the time without worrying about bettering myself or changing the world. I could simply be and laugh. I laughed so much.

So here I am now, somewhere between resplendent escapism and harsh reality. Truth be told, I think I’ll always be a bit of an escapist. I don’t think anyone can be “on” one hundred percent of the time without being an automaton. Perhaps my mode of escapism is changing. Perhaps I crave a more active escapism. Who knows.

(These vegetables have nothing to do with the play I was just in, or escapism, or anything else for that matter. I just think they look delicious and very simple. They are from the Cooper Young Farmers Market back in May. Oh, to be a radish in the earth.)

Not A Day Goes By That I Don’t Think of Be’er Sheva, Israel

I read the news much more now than I did a year and three days ago, when I said farewell to John F Kennedy Airport and the Western Hemisphere and took off, unwittingly, to Asia: the Middle-East, to be technical, Israel, to be precise, Be’er Sheva, this random little desert city, to be exact. Despite the constant barrage of news reports about Israeli-United States relations, Israelis and Palestinians, Israel and the United Nations that I read daily, as I sit here cozily in my bed, on a lazy, rainy and very wet Sunday afternoon in lower Bucks County (deer country), Pennsylvania, I am so painfully reminded that this special little place that I called home is so, so, so very, incredibly far, far away.
To comfort myself, I look up and around my bedroom so as to feel connected to something. I begin to take inventory of my surroundings, and my eyes fall first upon the stack of books on my bed-side table. Books make me inexplicably happy. I love the shapes, sizes, and colors of books, from the very small and flimsy to the grandiose, heavy and sincere. Some I purchased abroad or at used book sales; some were gifts; some are on (very long) loan. I love the naked spines of my journals, which collect all my crazy thoughts, and the sparsely decorated historiographies and commentaries from Saints and sinners alike.
As my eyes feast on this variable cornucopia of information, I spy a small trinket, a pearl among the diamonds–a small, glass, hand painted bottle from Bratislava, which once contained a sample of Slovakian honey meade (travel size!). Now my eyes begin to wander, scanning past the sea of blue wall, to the double-pained window. A small assortment of jewelry, trinkets, and photographs rest there, along with an ill-crafted flute purchased in Bethlehem, on the off chance that I might have found some sheep that needed herding. Alas, I did not.
Below this sill sit my instruments: a large djembe perched on top of a foraged wooden stool and an old acoustic, three quarter size guitar. Suddenly, the term “traveling minstrel” begins to sound like a serious and viable occupation. But African drums are extremely cumbersome.
Above and to the right of the sill hang a few foraged and gifted pictures, not of people, but of wine bottles, sunflowers, inspirational quotes and a portion of Van Gough’s Starry Nights, repainted into a neat little four by four pun: “Van-Go,” and a Volkswagon beetle in the foreground.
My eyes turn again to the closet door, filled so deep with memories that I hesitate to unravel the fathoms just now. I think of the drawers of one cabinet, in particular; the bottom, being the deeper of the two, contains my old maps, travel guides, notebooks, ticket stubs, and Hebrew language learning assignments. Every map I gathered from every hostel I slept in or museum or mountain I visited I kept: from Eilat to Jerusalem to Budapest, Prague, Vienna, and Slovakia, and from Ein Gedi to Masada and Old Jaffa Hostel. Maps, like books, are precious jewels to me, founts of invaluable and unique information. On them I marked and circled all the sites I loved, the restaurants that served good beer or dessert, the hostels with the friendliest staff, the nearest bus terminal and number.
I am there now, at the bus terminal in Bratislava, sipping a Pilsner inside the station pub, which itself was converted from an out-of-use street car. Then I jump to the porch outside the Ein Gedi hostel, perched with free café (instant, in that red and black packet, and milk from a pouch!), watching the full moon rise over the Dead Sea, Jordan in the background. (As close as I was and as many times as I saw the cities and mountains of Jordan, I never actually crossed the border, despite Petra being a huge tourist destination. I have to go back!!) In my mind I wake up and stretch to greet the great dense, salty sea, then climb, high, higher still up the mountain to the highest legally allowed point in forty degree centigrade heat, then down, deep down into Dodom’s cave and waterfall. Oh, the magic of the desert!!!
My heart longs again for those secret places in the land, those deep mysteries that are so fixed, ancient and overwhelming. I come back to my room, and my eyes fall upon my favorite poem, framed and mounted above my chest of drawers, and I begin to read:

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

I think again of the silent and the chaotic in far away lands. I think of the silent and chaotic demons that test us here in my home country, indeed in my very heart and soul. Tests, challenges, other points of view–as cliche as it sounds, I found myself through living day in day out in Be’er Sheva, getting to sleep each night and waking up with the hot desert sun on my face. I found something I had been looking for since I was a little girl: the confidence and serenity to feel my feet fixed firmly on the ground, yet the faith to throw caution to the wind and let these same feet fly out from under me, over a rock into water or down into a cave. I found the truth–that the world is not such a nice place all the time, and that your life will never be what you want it to be if you put your store in changing times that make headlines, sell newspapers, and send people time and again to war. I think this is why so many pilgrims come to Jerusalem, why so many religious faithful live in Jerusalem, and why that city is and has been and will probably always be the hottest place on Earth: they know, they understand that the ebbing tide of change only rushes over what is firmly rooted into time and space: God and his plan for us.
I have no answers for peace in the world, but I will forever strive, and may we all work for this:

In the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

The Day After A Day of Rain

The day after a day of rain
is the best day of the year
for a few moments when everything is clear.

And the sun stretches my muscles,
and the wind tousles my hair
and my dress flutters against me
Floating, floating on air.

And my feet dance in their sandals
and my toes wriggle like worms
and my nails shine like the diamonds
Harvested deep in caverns.

This moment my heart rejoices
in all God has given to Earth–
from the veins in the trees
to the rocks in the seas

That always, that always
Know their own worth.

Tuesday

An umbrella makes all the difference. With proper equipment, such as a pocket umbrella and thick, rubber soled boots, one can easily enjoy a walk in the rain. Without these items, a leisurely and meditative stroll quickly becomes a philosophical battle against God–an illustration of the concept “man versus the universe,” like when Gregor Samsa became a bug or God drowned the whole state of New Jersey (Was that in the Old Testament?)
Even in heavy rain, a walk is a walk and an excuse to leave the office, where I sit every day, dozing off as the ceiling fan murmurs its monotonous tunes: hmmmhmhmmhmhmhmhm. Because this is a student-centered office, and because there are no students around for the summer, I jump ecstatically out of my seat at the very rattle of the door handle or the electronic buzzing of the telephone. The notion that life exists outside these rooms comforts me, which is ironic if one considers that I spend the day staring at maps and especially computer screens, hypothetical outlets for the imagination; my imagination, however, now that summer is here and I have no pressing assignments, grows exponentially larger than the office rooms in which I lazily spin day after day after day.
The task that warranted my soggy walk was a simple delivery errand, yet as soon as I stepped outside, immense determination swelled in me. I must deliver this envelope. I must not get it wet. But what if I should fall into a puddle and drown! Or rather, because the weather has not quite reached Noah’s Ark proportions yet, the more likely scenario would be for me to trip and drop the envelop into a wet, nasty puddle, causing all ink to run and smear and rendering the forms illegible. Then I would have to walk with my tail between my legs back to the office and explain like a wounded child why I had not done what I was told. Or if I was too ashamed to admit my error, I would simply sit under a tree until enough time had elapsed that I could return to the office with an air of false accomplishment and simply ignore my sin until the evidence surfaced that the intended recipient had never indeed received her files. Then I would really be in trouble!
Luckily nothing of the sort happened. Though the wind did pick up, I managed to tuck the envelope between my shirt and one flap of my jacket (I could not zip it because my other hand held the prized umbrella!) and cover the remaining portion with my elbow. This arrangement I carried out quite well until I reached my office destination, ascended the stairs, deposited the envelope in the shiny wire basket on the front desk, and turned around, at which point I could relieve one hand of the umbrella to button my shirt and jacket. This made the return journey all the better, for now I was much more prepared for precarious weather.
On my return stroll, I encountered something amazing, and since this is my story and therefore a project of my imagination, I will venture the boldness to say that this little encounter was a gift from God or my guardian angel.
Instead of retracing my steps, I decided to go a slightly different direction, passing by the softball and track fields and then the four story parking garage. And it is here that my little adventure begins.
Very distinctly, I heard the sound of concert music–in reflection I understand that the music came from one instrument, but to my very hungry ears it seems as if a concert was happening inside the parking garage. I pictured myself in a grand concert hall, dreamily following the ebb and flow of notes, gazing upon dozens of formal-clad musicians hugging and kissing their instruments as sweet melodies cascaded down gold-laden busts, chandeliers, walls and rugs. I was intoxicated. Not in a lustful way, for this music bore no hint of lasciviousness. Rather I can liken the tune I heard to the idea of a songbird. Not the call of a bird, mind you, but the idea of a bird: a songbird that appears in my backyard in springtime, fluttering from branch to branch or spins in circles with companion birds, light as the feathers they wear. Something about the ascension and staccato bursts of notes imprinted this image firmly in my mind. I was determined to find the source of this beautiful music.
I turned at once into the garage, scanning the first floor of parked cars, but to no avail. Quickly I climbed the stairs, came to the second floor and again saw a few cars but no music–though I could hear it more voluminously now. Another set of stairs I climbed and was about to continue to the fourth, as I saw no cars, when a flash of silver caught the corner of my eye. I peeked over the corner wall and–there he was! A tall, lanky bespectacled flautist standing in the abandoned third floor–his cement concert hall. The concert master’s body bobbed with dips in melody, and his fingers ran up and down the instrument as if caressing it. He never stopped save once to turn the page. How long he had been there I could not know, but he seemed to be in a trance and was casting his spell on me as well. I the helpless victim, the soggy wanderer, had been led by my curiosity and imagination into Mr. Tumnus’ cozy cave.
Of course after a few minutes I was pulled by a string in my heart back to reality and wondered how long I had been standing there awkwardly watching this private ceremony. I could not tell but knew I should get back to the office. With a small bow, I left unnoticed by the master flautist and bounded down the stairs, feeling infinitely rejuvenated.
I returned to the office, where of course nothing had changed, and I proceeded to write this story. Yet I am still thinking about this boy with the flute, and I admit I envy him. Not that I have any proclivity to flute playing nor desire to learn. As I watched him, I was in awe of his concentration and fluidity, which no doubt results from years of dedication to the music, the fingering, and the performance of concert pieces. But, ah, they are so beautiful! What is it about music that makes me cry? Is it the fullness that abounds when music starts in an empty space? To describe my love affair with orchestral sounds requires more complicated prose than I am now capable of writing. And soon it will be time to go home.
So I must now leave my exercise in prose and prepare to return to the outside world–the real world, honestly, which is highly scary and all together disconcerting. What if I could have an umbrella to protect me from all sorts of bad news? I’d take the rain any day.